


This splendid time of peace

by JauntyHako



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: 13 chapters in and Angharad and Slit still kinda dislike each other, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angharad survives and goes back to the Citadel, F/M, Slow Burn, Very Very Slow Burn, also Life at the Citadel, angry chickens, like seriously, picks up random war boys on her way, the true stories of Angharad and Slit, they just follow her like a row of chickens, trying to fit into a world that's not really what they hoped for, who are both touchstarved and touchaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 55,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4355855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JauntyHako/pseuds/JauntyHako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Staring straight ahead into the blazing sun, the painful brightness keeping her conscious, she told herself she still did not regret.</p><p>Angharad journeys to the Citadel, broken and homesick war boys trailing after her like the last blessing of the Immortan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angharad

**Author's Note:**

> I am not over Mad Max. I will not ever be over Mad Max. So here have my happy denial that any of the painful things happened and instead everyone lives forever.

At the Citadel every pregnant woman was handled with satin gloves. Extra meals, milk and as much water as they could drink. Blankets for the cold, even ice for the swollen feet. But when Furiosa told her the time had come, they wouldn't get a chance this good for another decade, she hadn't hesitated. All the luxuries in the world were cruel pinpricks to a woman treated like a thing.

Angharad had not regretted a single thing she did since crawling into the war rig. Her baby would not be a warlord.

Staring straight ahead into the blazing sun, the painful brightness keeping her conscious, she told herself she still did not regret. Her feet had long stopped leaving bloody footprints but she wondered if the pain she felt in them came from the heat or the cuts.

 

 _Stay quiet, shallow breaths. I'll tell them you're dead._ The Organic had said, looking between Miss Giddy and her and pressing his finger to his lips. It had cost her the tip of her tongue not to scream as he stitched her open belly close, but the exhaustion left her pliant and unresponsive like a corpse as the war boys heaved her into the compartment under Joe's rig, to keep her cool and intact until she could be properly disposed of. One of them touched her hair before he left, scolded by his fellow war boys. She wished she could have bitten his finger off.

As they drove through the night, pace slowed to allow search parties to look for the traitor Furiosa, Miss Giddy snuck down to her. The air in the compartment was stuffy, even more so than in the war rig, which Furiosa had subtly prepared to hold five women for as long as needed. Breathing laborously but silent, Angharad helped Miss Giddy unscrew the lower panel, the organic sitting between them and Joe, hiding their movement with his body. Before they slipped out, hoping the gusts of sand would hide them until they reached the rock outcroppings, he turned and tilted his head in question.

“You paid your debt.” Miss Giddy said and they were gone.

 

A stone, sharp and biting in her toe felled Angharad as surely as a shot would have. She hit the ground. The thin layer of sand was not enough to soften her fall. Mouth full of dirt and chafing at her open scrapes, she wondered if it was a bad sign she didn't bleed anymore. Throwing lances of heat at her was the midday sun, _Furiosa_ in the lingo of the Citadel, the wrathful one, burning engines and people alike. There was nothing more cruel, not the absence of water, not the bite of lumps under one's skin, that incited more terrified worship than the sun at her highest point. Even the Immortan never went out under Furiosa's glare if he could avoid it.

 _The Immortan fears you_. Angharad thought, seeking the feeling in her legs. _You will lead me home_.

Angharad learned early not to vocalise her pain and she didn't now, even alone in the desert, pushing herself to her knees, then to her feet. Then staggering forward. The canyon, she just needed to reach the canyon.

 

“Hold up, child. Grant an old woman some rest.”

Turning around to look was an investment Angharad could not afford, so she simply stood and peered ahead for a hideout while Miss Giddy caught up. They were still protected by the last outliers of the canyon, itself no longer in sight, full of shady spots and even some niches they could curl up in when they needed to rest. Not far from where she stood an overhang provided shade, standing between spiky rocks that no war boy, however crazy would drive over, for fear of destroying his vehicle. As a way to conserve energy Angharad did not point at it but simply moved toward it, slower than she'd been walking before, hoping the old woman would see where she intended to go.

She did and soon after they were both cooped up underneath the rock, sharing some of the little water Miss Giddy had been able to steal before their flight. It was barely enough to moisten their throats.

“There is a settlement not far from here, where they have water and food.”

“Too far out of the way.” Angharad objected. Miss Giddy sighed, a pitying sound as she gently stroked through Angharads hair. She had planned on walking through the night, using the dark as a cover through the open desert. But the gentle touches and her own fatigue made her wish for one nights rest. One night, however, would be too long. They needed to keep moving forward, lest Buzzards or other raiderfolk found them. Her eyes dropped close even as she thought of it.

“Oh child, I am tired. Where do you intend to go like this? With your belly all torn up and your throat almost too dry to speak.”

“The Green Place.” Angharad said stubbornly. “Furiosa remembers it. It exists.”

“Where the Many Mothers live.”

“Yes.”

“And you will not stray from this path? Nothing I can say?”

“Nothing.” Angharad hesitated, then turned to look Miss Giddy in the eye. “I'm sorry.”

But the old woman merely smiled, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear.

“Never be sorry for striving to gain freedom. Rest. I will wake you once we can continue.”

Grateful for not being completely alone, Angharad closed her eyes, dreaming of her sisters and Furiosa and a place where green things grew.

 

For the third time this day the canyon came into sight. Flickering and wavering against the late sunlight it pinned the sky securely to the earth. Behind it the Citadel lay, and her sisters and Furiosa. Why they had turned from the Green Place, Angharad didn't know. No hostile force could stand between Furiosa and her home. But the alternative, that the place had been destroyed or worse, had never existed, didn't bear thinking about. In the end it didn't matter. No green paradise held appeal for Angharad without her sisters. Either they were alive and well at the Citadel or Joe had won and they were all dead for her to follow after. Either way, home lay beyond the canyon.

She blinked and it was gone again, another mirage to make her hopeful.

“Smeg.” she cursed, the word so alien in her voice she promptly shut her mouth. But it reminded her enough of the Dag to keep her moving. Eventually she'd reach the canyon and from there it was only a few days of walking back to the Citadel. If the Immortan had survived she'd likely find a war boy raiding party even sooner.

 

The cold woke her late in the night, wracking her bodies with tremors like she hadn't felt in decades. Being cold during the night lay so far beyond her old life it seemed to belong to another entirely. It was as if she'd snuck into a strange dream and for a moment she wanted to cry with happiness. Knowing that they'd have to get going hours ago dampened the euphoria.

“Miss Giddy, why didn't you wake me? We need to …” Angharad broke off, a fond smile ghosting over her lips. Miss Giddy lay beside her, eyes closed, so peaceful like she had never seen her before. She used to be so restless in sleep, labouring for breath, tossing and turning that frail body of hers. Now she was quiet and motionless. It hurt her to disturb her deep rest, but they needed to move on. Bring at least another few miles between them and the Citadel before day broke.

“Miss Giddy, we need to move on. Miss Giddy.” She shook her shoulder, berating herself for letting the old woman get exposed to the desert night. She was ice cold.

“Come on. Wake up.”

The last days must have taken a toll on her. In the beginning the Wives had tried to persuade Miss Giddy to flee with them, concerned for her safety as much for their unwillingness to part with her. Too old, she had said, too old to go on adventures and seek the Fiddler's Green. That was what she had called the green place, a term so old not even the old world books referenced it much. It looked like she would go there after all.

“We have slept long enough. Wake up already.”

But of course. The old woman merely pretended. If Angharad concentrated she thought she could see the smile she tried to hide even in the dark. She grinned in return.

“It's not funny, Miss Giddy. This is serious. We need to leave. No more games, I mean it. Wake up. _Wake up_.”  
Angharad shook her harder, irritated at the old woman's insistence to be silly with her.

“Fine, you'll have your way. We'll stop by the settlement, get water and food. What more do you want? Tell me. We need to go to the green place. We need to find the Wives. Cheedo will be so happy to see you. Remember how much she cried when we said goodbye? But now you're here and we will find them and … Miss Giddy, please wake up.”

 

She never did. Angharad had cried then, tearless and with shaking shoulders, hunched over Miss Giddy's lifeless body. She'd cried and cursed and wished for the Dag or Toast to be there. Wished she'd never fallen off the rig, never forced Miss Giddy to give her life to help her flee.

In the morning she put on Miss Giddy's jacket, took the last of the water and set off after the other Wives. With the same mechanical single-mindedness she turned around and started towards the Citadel, when she saw the War Rig and Immortan Joe's convoy rush past her in a mad chase.

 

When Angharad had wondered about war boys finding her before she even got close to the Citadel, she didn't think it was her who'd find the war boys. Or war boy, to be exact. He lay in midst of car wreckage she rifled through in search of spare water. She thought him dead, and his face certainly looked like it, dried blood around his mouth and cheeks, and all over his chest. Dead war boys didn't concern her. The window on the left backdoor was broken, the remaining shards easily removed with her hand covered in some fabric. She leaned into the car, almost toppling forward from sudden dizziness. She found what she was looking for quickly, only a puddle full in a burst canister and filled her bottle with it before gulping down what was left. It tasted faintly like guzzoline but it ran down her throat like a blessing.

The war boy made a sound like a dying lizard. Angharad almost screamed. She dropped out of the car and crouched low, heart racing to her throat. How was the smeg-face still alive? She was halfway convinced it had just been a gust of air pressed out of the corpse, when it happened again. And this time she saw him move.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have Angharad and Slit bonding (read: trying to kill each other but in an emotionally connecting way) and then, finally, some Nux.


	2. Slit

 

 There had been no Valhalla. Slit had died, he was sure of it. His heart had given out, his lungs filled with blood. Sputtering and coughing he'd begged for someone to witness him, anyone at all.

The chase had gone on already. No one there. He'd died, but his death had been chrome and shiny, hadn't it? Fire around him, fire in him, glorious explosions casting the sky red. His death had been chrome. But there'd been no gates, no heroes and no eternal road. Just his broken body amidst the wreckage.

He knew exactly whose fault that was. The traitorous Furiosa and her breeder whores had killed the Immortan. They denied him Valhalla. He would make them pay for it. What providence that one of them stood right in front of him.

 

The war boy lunged at her like bitten by a snake, teeth bared, the stretch ripping open the wounds around his mouth again. Angharad didn't even bother stepping back. Unimpressed she watched as the chain she'd slung around his neck yanked the war boy back against the rig. He tried again, snarling, tearing at the heavy chainlinks. This time she rose an eyebrow. The silent mockery revved him up even more. The tip of his fingers almost touched her skirt, half a fingerwidth separating her and his dirty nails. She smiled at the frustration building up in him.

“Schlanger-eating whore!” he screamed and broke together, caught in a coughing fit. He must have swallowed dust, and plenty of it, as his whole body was wracked with coughs. But still he fought against the chain, choking himself even more, cursing her with unintelligible words. After a while his anger bored her and she wandered off, listening to his hisses and growls, searching for more water. Many of the broken rigs had at least some left over. Enough for two to travel to the Citadel. As long, of course, they could pass the canyon. It was half a day away and clearly in sight now, no longer whispy mirage but real. It would have been comforting too, if not for the remnants of the war rig blown across the entrance.

 _Please don't let me find them in there_. Angharad thought, praying to any goddess that would listen. The Dag had so many of them. She would have known how to pray properly. All Angharad could do was hope and put off traveling as long as she dared. The raiders around the canyon would return soon, to salvage guzzoline and parts, if they hadn't already.

The war boy had grown quiet in the meantime. Angharad returned to find him hanging in his chains, sucking in air like a man dying and glaring at her.

“I will grant you a choice.” she said and lightly stepped aside as he swatted at her. The water running through her veins gave her strength and agility. How she'd made it this far without when it felt so invigorating to have, she didn't know.

“Immortan Joe is dead.” she said and hoped it was true. “If there are war boys surviving they have left you behind.”

She must have struck a nerve for he started raving again.

“The gates of Valhalla will open to me if I present your severed head!” he shouted, rattling the chain.

“There are no gates.”

“I live, I die, I live again. Your death will appease the Immortan.”

“He is dead!”

“He lives again! The Immortan never dies!”

“Are you even listening to yourself? He was just an old man and a fool.”

“ _Don't speak like that about the Immortan_.” the boy howled. Like her words hurt him physically his lunatic speeches degenerated into a garbled mess. Some words she could make out, like 'valhalla' and 'Immortan' and every now and then 'shiny and chrome' like a mantra.

 

“... will live again, the Immortan will welcome me at the gates. My death was shiny and chrome, it will be shiny and chrome. The gates are open, it's all there.” The chain bit into his neck, stung like a hot engine under a black thumbs fingers. He couldn't breathe. He tugged at it, wanted to scream when it wouldn't come off but all that came out was a pathetic whine and a cough. His throat was too raw even to speak anymore. If he closed his eyes now, he'd die a soft death. Never. His name was Slit and he was awaited in Valhalla. He would go where that traitor Nux had been denied. Dragging his arm to his mouth he bit into it, the weak flesh giving immediately under his teeth. Everything grew sharp, lifting him from near-unconsciousness and he did it again, ripped out tiny chunks of his skin and spat them at the breeder when she came close. She brushed off the bits of him as if they were nothing, kneeling now.

“Stop that.” she ordered and pulled his arm away. Fine, he'd bite her instead, choke her poke her with sticks until she stopped moving. Before he could even finish thinking, she laid an arm around him, cupped the side of his head and tilted it back with a nudge at his forehead. He was pressed against her shoulder, her hair tickling his skin.

“What the f-”

Clear aqua cola streamed over his lips into his mouth, flushing down the dust that had settled there. Instinctively he swallowed, working to keep from choking. The stream reduced to a trickle and suddenly it was much more bearable, even welcome. Slit was prone to water addiction, always had been. He couldn't find it in him to resist this time either. The breeder held him up against her, kept his protesting body from falling back against the rock. Looking up, still suckling on the bottle of water, his eyes met hers. Her eyes were like Nux's. A different colour, but just as bright. It unsettled him so instead he concentrated on her scars, familiar too, but something he could hold onto. A breeder shouldn't have shiny eyes. She should have bland eyes, without any white in them or even filled with blood like his bad one. The scars were better. All property of the Immortan had scars, it was his sign that you belonged to him. His blessing.

 

The war boy relaxed in her half embrace almost the moment she started giving him water. The cursing stopped and so did the self-mutilation. She didn't know how long she could hold him like this. Hopefully long enough to calm him down for good. The constant mad prattling had started getting on her nerves.

It worked well enough. By the time she'd shared enough water, most of which she planned on using up as she couldn't take all of it with them, he remained only half conscious. His head lolled against her shoulder and he mumbled something under his breath. Probably still nonsense about the gates and valhalla or whatever else it was Joe had implanted in the war boys minds. She set him down on the ground, the chain loose. Maybe he'd be more peaceful tomorrow and she could take it off. It wouldn't do for the chafing on his neck to break into an open wound. With bits of scraps from the broken rigs she'd build some shade, enough for her to sit next to the war boy and escape the searing heat at least for now.

“What's your name?” she wondered, not expecting the war boy to answer and not surprised when he didn't. A brief look down confirmed he was still awake and staring at her. She'd have taken a sleeping war boy over a wake one, but at least he wasn't attacking. It took the shadows crawling half an inch longer, before he fell asleep, fighting against it to the last moment.

Angharad stayed awake, staring out at the canyon and the black jagged remains of the war rig. She slung her arms around her legs, rested her chin on her knees and wished someone was here with her. Not a war boy, but a woman. Furiosa would make her go forward, would tell her not to waste the water and move on. Capable would tell her she'd be okay, that there was nothing scary in the rig. She wished Miss Giddy was here.

For as long she could remember, there had been other women in her life. First she was a daughter, and that memory was as distant to her as the Many Mothers were to Furiosa. Perhaps even more so. There were flashes of blonde hair but if she thought really hard, she couldn't tell if they were truly her mothers or the Dag's, one memory melding with another. When the war boys had taken her from among the Wretched, she'd been too young to be a wife even to Joe. The old wives had embraced her, dried her tears and read her stories. When they grew too old to be bred, Miss Giddy taught her to read herself. She read to the younger wives as they came, first the Dag, then Toast and Capable and lastly Cheedo, just weeks before they escaped. Lying under the heaving mass of Immortan Joe, breathing through his stink and having to act as if they enjoyed it all, the other Wives had been the only comfort. And in return Angharad gave them all she had. She never learned what happened to old wives once they'd fallen out of Joe's favour but she carried on their warm embrace towards the others. For once in her life she had control over something. By directing Joe's attention to herself, she spared Capable, by cooing sweet nothings in his ear she made sure he favoured rough Toast even less. She could not prevent it all, but each small victory was a blessing. Each victory had driven her to Furiosa.

Whenever the Wives left the vault, which happened rarely enough, an Imperator accompanied them, to keep them from running off, but more importantly to shield them from the eyes of curious war boys. They'd be dressed in long linens to hide their bodies. What Joe had never thought of was how easy one could sneak messages in and out in these long robes. Furiosa's first message had read simply: _Joe out on raid. Due back 17 days_.

And thus started a quiet conversation, Angharad sending back her thanks, knowing when Joe would return relieving the Wives of anticipating his victory rut every waking moment. When he was gone they could talk more freely, Furiosa bringing them food and news and stories from outside. That was how she learned of the green place.

 

Slit woke to darkness so deep for a second he believed himself to be blind. Had the breeder poked out his eyes in his sleep? But no, there was starlight up above and even a thin sickle of moon. A whole field of broken rigs and no one there to fix them with glowing metal and welders, he'd never thought he'd ever witness something so desolate.

“Finally awake?”

Slit flinched at the breeders voice, remembering her presence farther away. Thank V8 she couldn't see his weakness in the dark.

“Drink.”

She tipped the bottle of aqua cola to his lips again but this time he tore away, pressing his lips together and shaking his head.

“Don't be stubborn.” She was nothing more than sounds in the void and the insistent prodding of the bottle at his lips. If there was anything to see by he'd feel much more secure, but like this he couldn't even tell where she was, other than too close. If she tried to force him to drink, he needed to defend himself. The Immortan would never allow him into valhalla if he grew addicted to water. She was in front of him, cupping his shoulders. The bottle was gone. Why was she touching him like this? It was ridiculously ineffective, he could shake her off every moment. She said something he didn't understand. His skin was warm where she touched like the organic steadying him when he pushed in a needle for a transfusion. But no needle ever came. This touch was too soft, for war pups but not for those awaited. He wouldn't be able to go to valhalla if he was too soft. Why didn't she do anything? He thought he could hear her voice again, but his ears rang and her hands on his shoulders turned heavier.

“no …” he whispered, hoarse from sleep. “no, no, no, no …”

The hands disappeared and he breathed a sigh of relief, curled in on himself and used his own hands to scratch over the place where she had touched. Something rustled in the darkness and a moment later the breeder lit a flare, muted with some wire and fabric. Just enough to allow them to see by, not enough to risk discovery.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you.”

She didn't hurt him, that was the problem. Her touch had been stupid and confusing and not at all like proper touching should go. He inched away further, the rattling of the chain reminded him of his limited options, to make sure she wouldn't get weird ideas again.

“Tell me what I did that upset you. Before I do it again.”

That was more like it. Threats he could work with. He didn't want to be touched like that again. He wanted valhalla. Perhaps she tried to punish him for not drinking the water.

“Your hands.” he said. “Didn't like it.”

She nodded.

“But before when I held you to drink, that was alright?”

It was his turn to give a brief nod. The breeder crouched and looked at him as if she expected more, so he complied.

“That was different. Like … sleeping with the war boys. Just bodies rubbing together.”

It was quiet for a long time. Slit wasn't stupid. He knew his life and that of a Wife's were like chrome and rust. They tried using the same words to explain different things. He waited for the breeder to understand, accepted that for the moment she was in control. At least until he found an opening to wrest it from her. Chained and under constant threat to be touched in this soft way again, there was no opportunity for him to strike back.

“When it's just circumstance that makes us touch, that doesn't bother you. Only if it's for you specifically?”

Good enough. He nodded again, and shuffled to the side when the breeder sat next to him.

“You must have had _someone_ touch you like that before. What about when you were a chi- a war pup? Were they never gentle with you then, either?”

“'m not a pup anymore.”

“Yes, I know, but …”  
“ _I'm not a pup_.”

He hissed at her, a sound coming so easy with his scars to help. Was that why she had touched him? Because she wanted to make him be like a pup? He had scars, he had a name. He was too strong for anything soft to be done to him ever again. He was awaited.

“You are not a pup, I understand. I won't touch you if you don't want. Not ever.”

It sounded so sincere, he couldn't help but ask: “Not even for punishment?”

The noise she made scared him, like a broken off whine that he didn't know the meaning of.

“Of course not.” she said and after a short pause in which she examined him with those bright war boy like eyes of hers added, “I wasn't trying to punish you before, you know that, right?”

He shrugged. This conversation should be over. Talking about it was almost as bad as doing it. The Immortan would starve him dead if he knew he was talking about touching. The breeder appeared to understand because she didn't say anything anymore. Instead she stood up and packed what she owned, the water bottles, filled one last time from the small reservoir she'd collected, a blanket thick enough to keep the cold out at night and a jacket which she threw to Slit.

“Wear this.”

Without questioning he slipped into the jacket, a bit small, especially around the shoulders. He wondered who it'd belonged to before. Tiny Nux could have fit in this far easier.

The sharp clang of metal snapping apart tore him from his thoughts. The breeder held his chain with one hand, a cutter with the other. She threw the chain for him to catch.

“If you try anything I'll choke you with that thing.” she said. And turned and started walking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slit is a confused little puppy. I kinda like writing the war boys as being super conditioned into not accepting anything even remotely gentle. They're supposed to be suicide-glorifying crazy people and if they suddenly started discovering the joys of living (like, you know, doing the do) I'd just bet the Immortan would have a crazy hard time getting them to kill themselves. So the moment puberty starts kicking in, they go full "touching is bad and if something feels nice at all youre not going to valhalla". Kinda like some christians telling their kids not to masturbate only cranked up to eleven. But I'll expand on that in the next chapter, so no need to read my off-fic rambling :D


	3. Nux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two paragraphs should have gone in the last chapter, I know. Blame my erratic writing process.

Over the course of the night the war boy had become docile, trailed after her like a ribbon fluttering in the wind. In the beginning he'd grumbled and muttered under his breath, a steady stream of complaints about everything from the Immortan's gaze upon them to the texture of the sand.

Now he was quiet, only the shuffling of his feet reminding Angharad he was still there. Before them lay the war rig and the many burned out shells of cars that had followed it, driven it into the narrow canyon. At full speed it was almost impossible to hit the opening between the rocks, not even Furiosa would have dared it. Unless she had no other choice. When they had driven past her, Joe had been close on their tail lights. What if she had lost control over the rig, what if it had crashed and burned with the Wives still inside, if …

“Why do war boys paint themselves white?” Angharad asked, blurting out the first thing that came to her mind. She mustn't think of what lay ahead. Keep walking and face the horrors as they came. That was how she survived under Joe. That was how she would continue to survive.

“To honour the Immortan. We remake ourselves in his likeness.”

From the tone in his voice it was obvious those weren't his words. He quoted someone, perhaps an Imperator, perhaps some kind of teacher, if they had those.

Joe had always been covered in white dust, to treat the many rashes and sores, and it had rubbed off on her skin more times than not, leaving handshaped prints on her hips, smears of white across her chest and legs. The paint of the war boys, in contrast, seemed baked onto their skin. She would have thought the war boy to be really as pale, if she hadn't noticed the places he'd missed painting.

They moved on, Angharad mulling about the foreign customs of the war boys, who'd lived so different lives just steps away from the vault, the war boy following her without complaint.

 

Slit eyed the breeder suspiciously. What did she go around asking questions for? No one cared why they made their skin white. There was something strange going on with this one. She'd given him the chain to hold, instead of tugging him along like she was supposed to. He was her captive, was he not? She'd better act the part. They passed more car wrecks, shiny, chrome wrecks. He could do wonders with those, even get one moving again, build his own rig, with his name carved on the pedals. Of course the breeder wouldn't let him. She didn't even look at the vehicles around them, just trotted along like one of the Wretched. Once he got back to the Citadel he'd take some of the war boys out here and take everything back they could use. The Immortan would be proud of him. He'd forgive him for being touched soft, for almost but not quite dying, for every little thing that had happened since his driver traitored them. He'd be there, Immortan Joe, on the platform overlooking the plains, his Imperators at his side, that bitch Furiosa strung up and swaying in the high winds. He'd be there and Slit would earn his blessing.

More so for bringing him back one of his breeders. What happened to the others he didn't know, didn't care. He had this one and she followed the path to the Citadel even without him having to poke her with needles and knives.

 

 

 

Fate played cruel tricks on Nux. Four times he'd stood before the gates of valhalla, four times they were closed to him. Evading the rock riders coming to scavenge the war rig for parts and guzzolene had been a feat. Three days he'd hidden where he could, crawling on his hands and knees, playing dead when they spotted him. No one ever approached. Now the rock riders were gone, likely keeping their distance in case the war boys from the Citadel came to take back what was left. He could almost see it in the distance, in the hours around dawn, when the sun was not so bright as to blind him, but instead shed gentle red light for him to see by. Capable must have sent it to him, to show him where to go on his way home. Capable it was he wanted to come home to. During the first nights Nux wondered if she would cast him out. If she would call him mediocre for not dying high and historic. But Capable liked living things, he remembered. She liked seeds and war pups and him. She liked him better alive than dead. Capable wouldn't deny him because he lived.

Dragging his bad leg behind him, Nux gathered some drops of guzzolene and bits of cloth from the dead war boys.

 

“ _Fuck it, fuck it!” Nux cursed, vision swimming, pushing at the bent metal that trapped his leg in the remains of the rig. His head felt like nails dragged over metal sounded. The engines of the rock riders approached fast, the wild whooping and hollering almost drowned out by it. The scalding hot metal, heated by the fires and explosions, would not budge. Nux punched it, howling in desperation. He couldn't die like this. With no one to witness him, given the chance to see Capable again only to have it ripped from him. Bone scraped over bone as he tried to move his leg, driving tears into his eyes. He clutched his knee, not able to reach farther down and tugged again. Black spots danced in front of his eyes but something moved. Nux could see the rock riders now, scouting for war boys still alive. A shot echoed through the canyon. They had found one. Nux redoubled his efforts, clenched his jaw, ignored the pain. Another shot and another dead war boy. They hadn't found him yet, the war rigs remains shielding him from sight. A third shot. This one so close Nux was sure they'd found him. With one final pull his leg came free, sending him tumbling down the rig and hitting the ground below. He kept low, dragged himself forward on his arms away from the rig, towards the dusty rocks. The rock riders'd be in a hurry, wary of all the other scavengers. They wouldn't search too far from the wreckage._

 

With the help of old engine parts he managed a spark that lit the cloth drenched in guzzolene alight. The thin sheets of metal he'd built around it kept the light in, but heated up quick and nice. The fire wouldn't last long, but the warmth stored in the metal bore him through the night. He curled up around his makeshift heater, only his bad leg stretched out. He couldn't walk on it. Had tried, but all he managed were a few steps before he broke down. Like this he'd never make it to the Citadel.

Some of the wrecks were almost intact. Even from the things the rock riders had left, things too heave to transport in a hurry, car parts they had no use for, he could assemble a rig. Maybe not the best in existence, but it'd get him home. At least it would, if there were enough guzzolene. But that the rock riders had taken that to the last drop. No matter. He'd find a way. Capable would know of one, but she thought he was dead and didn't look for him.

Night fevers plagued him until the morning, making him wake, shaking from the ghastly imagines they brought with. Once he dreamt of Capable. She sat next to him in the war rig and held his hand as he crashed it. Her hair became flames and ate at her skin and she screamed but he couldn't put out the flames. Then the Immortan came and freed her from the flames and promised her a place in valhalla by his side. But she cried tears made from water and begged Nux to burn with her, but the Immortan took her away and behind the gates. He ran as fast as he could but the gates shut before his hands, Capable gone, captive of the Immortan and Nux was barred from her.

The dream followed him into the day. Larry and Barry whispered to him as he worked on the least damaged car, and when he wouldn't listen they pressed on his windpipe.

_The Immortan never dies. Have you seen him die? No one sees the Immortan die because he lives forever._

He shook his head and bashed his head against the car to drive those thoughts out of his head. The Immortan was dead. Capable was at the Citadel, free and surrounded by green just like she wanted. He raised his head against the sun to squint at it and maybe curse at its insistence to be so very hot. That was when he saw them approaching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nux being ridiculously in love with Capable is my jam. He's so the kind of boyfriend who never shuts up about how great his girlfriend is.


	4. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four chapters in and it just occurs to me that writing Angharad is really hard. Canon doesn't give much directly in terms of characterisation (although still more than 90% of female main characters from other movies get) but from the interactions and the backstory I imagine her to be somewhat authoritative but also very compassionate. That's a weird mix to write in the best of cases. Slit's so much easier in that canon doesn't give me much either, but I can just take Nux and crank the aggressiveness and pride up a few notches.

“I'm Nux, that's my name, Nux. I said I'd jam the throttle and follow when she was safe, but then Rictus tore out the engine, just tore it out like a chromed up madman straight on his way to valhalla and I had no other choice, had to stay, blow the rig up so they wouldn't go after Capable, she should be safe and she is, safe with all the others and I helped, I helped.”

Angharad's grip on the war boy's neck softened. He whistled with every breath, probably from the lumps on his shoulders making breathing even harder. She knew this one. The jumpy one who'd attacked them in the rig. She thought they'd thrown him off.

“Why would they let you help them?” she asked, swatting at the other war boy like at an errant fly.

“I asked and they said I could help. Capable was n-nice to me.” At this he looked at her companion, unsure but a bit defiant, too. “She asked me things and listened and then she …” He broke off, worried his lower lip between his teeth. “She helped me. So I helped her back. I wanna go home. You're going to the Citadel, too, yes? Capable will be so happy to meet you again. She cried a lot when she thought you were dead. And, and the Dag, she will be happy, too.”

“The Dag is still alive?”

The boy nodded eagerly, even smiling a little. It looked scary with his scars stretching like that.

“They all are. I think. The Imperator was hurt bad, real bad. Perhaps she's in Valhalla. Perhaps she chased the Immortan out of there.”

“Traitor!” Before she knew it the war boy had shoved her aside, knees dug into Nux' stomach, fists flying. “Traitor, traitor!”

“GET OFF HIM!” Angharad tried grabbing the war boys chain and fell forward as he pulled at it himself. It didn't even distract him. Something cracked under his fists, but Nux gave back as good as he got. The other war boy roared like an animal in pain. He was fully consumed in his anger and Angharad wasn't about to stand around and watch who'd win. She picked up the wrench Nux had dropped when she'd charged at him and hit the boy on top of him as hard as she could. He fell like a tower of books. Nux lunged after him but Angharad pushed him aside before he could get a decent swing in.

“Stop it! Both of you.”

Nux, at least, listened. He stayed where he fell, looking up at her like Cheedo did when she thought someone was disappointed in her. The other one was not so accommodating. Some of his wounds burst open, the red a stark contrast to the white of his skin. With a little more sense in his head he would have stayed down, but he struggled to his feet and towards Nux again, hand pressed to his ribcage where Angharad hit him.

“Stop. Stop it.”

Normally she'd have tried to calm him with touch. That being not an option she had no idea how to get him down from this mood.

“Don't fight with each other.” she said in a low voice, raising her hands to soothe the pent up war boy.

“He traitored us. Because of _him_ the gates are closed.”

Nux flinched and made to say something, but Angharad threw him a look to shut him up.

“How could one war boy close the gates for everyone else?”

“I don't know! He did. I was supposed to die shiny and chrome and he ruined it.”

But he sounded unsure of himself, eyes fleeting to Nux and back to Angharad. She didn't argue with him but waited him out and finally the war boy huffed and walked off to poke around in the car wrecks.

“Thank you.” The boy Nux whispered behind her and let her help him up. “I don't wanna fight with Slit. He's my lancer.”

Slit. So that was his name. Fitting, really. Angharad didn't feel much like smiling but the boy seemed to need it so she indulged him. The ensuing grin on his part made him almost worth the trouble.

Almost. Angharad hadn't met many war boys, but this one had to be the most talkative of them all. As he followed her around the place he verbalised every thought that grazed his brain, mostly about Capable, how red her hair was, how shiny her goggles, how much he liked her voice. The boy was smitten with her. And from the sound of it Capable had been as smitten with him.

After their scuffle, Nux and Slit avoided each other. They threw each other glances when they thought no one was looking, but other than that they acted as if the other didn't exist.

“Can you get that car running?” she asked, reaching the point where they'd first seen him, bent over the hood of one of the rigs that had mostly survived the explosion.

“Easy. The parts are all around. No guzzolene, though. We need that.”

“Maybe the wrecks further up the road have some left.” she suggested, watching as Slit poked his head into the smoked out frame of a car, short jacket riding up and revealing his scarred lower back. Even from this distance she could see the metal tacks, with which the wounds were held together. How often those were infected she couldn't imagine. Every move must hurt him, even simply lying on his back had to be torture. Someone ought to patch these boys up proper.

“The rock riders didn't go far from the canyon when they stole our things. Scared of us war boys they are.” Nux said, following Angharads gaze and dropping his own when he caught Slit's eye.

“Get back to repairing the car then. I'll take Slit and look for fuel.”

With a grateful sigh, Nux scurried off back to his car.

“Slit! Come with me. Now.” She added when it looked like he wouldn't obey.

 

Slit was the Immortan of slouching. He walked without lifting his feet at all, shoulders dropped so low they nearly touched his knees and all that with a sullen expression, as if he'd died and found out hell was forever following Angharad around a scrapyard.

The first two wrecks were empty of guzzolene and too torn up to have anything else of value. They had more luck with the third one, Slit sucking a small amount of fuel into the canister they'd brought with them. How he could take the vile stuff in his mouth was beyond her, but then again, most of war boy culture was. If they suffered so many injuries in battle, why not get professionals to patch them up? Slit frowned at her when he caught her staring. His face was still full of blood.

“What?” he asked, spitting out some rest guzzolene at her feet.

“Nothing. Keep looking. We need that canister full.”

He made unappreciative noises but followed her command.

For someone so hateful of her he'd surprisingly little reservations about taking orders. The war boys were little more than children, even the older ones. They needed an authority figure to guide them, even if it came in the form of someone who defied the Immortan. How long that loyalty would last was another question entirely.

Two more cars held enough fuel to get them to the Citadel. They returned to Nux's wreck. She walked tall, not letting on how all this walking around and fighting exhausted her. The stitches on her belly stung madly and the leg where the Fool had shot her throbbed worse than when the wound had been fresh. Slit wandered off as soon as they were in the shade of the rigs again, leaving her to set the canister down by Nux's side.

“How far are you?” she asked. Nux was by far easier to talk to than Slit.

“A few hours. Fuel tank's all banged up and and both axles are broken. Need parts but they're around somewhere.”  
“Can I help you find them?”

Nux shook his head timidly. He looked pained to have to tell her no.  
“No. Wouldn't know what to look for.”

“Would Slit know?”

He hesitated. Nodded.

Angharad patted him on the shoulder to reassure him. Then she remembered how Slit had reacted to her touch. She tore her hand away as if burned, but Nux looked content. She'd expected fear, maybe even anger. At the very least irritation.

“You don't have a problem with being touched?”

Nux shook his head. Most of his paint flaked off, so she saw him blush.

“Shouldn't like it. Capable did it a lot. Said there was nothing wrong with it.” He paused. “Valhalla doesn't want me anyway. Doesn't make a difference.”  
A rift opened in the conversation, black and gaping in its unfamiliarity. He looked for comfort from a person who knew of valhalla only by the war boys ramblings. She went for honesty.

“I don't know if your valhalla exists. But I know that when we get home, Capable will be very happy to see you again.”

Nux smiled to himself and then leaned forward and kissed Angharad on the cheek. Her eyes widened, but the boy, agile like a snake, was already back under the car.

 

“Don't touch me.” was the first thing Slit said when Angharad approached. She longed to simply sit down and rest her leg. Instead she had to play the mediator between two immature war boys.

“I won't. You need to-” She interrupted herself. On a scale of one to ten, forcing these boys to work together without resolving their issues, was a clear nine. Ten being crawling around the war rig driving at full speed. Instead of giving him an order, she sat down in the shade of the car he examined, barely suppressing the blissful sigh as her weight was lifted from her leg.

“I need to what?” Slit asked annoyed.

“Nothing. Can I ask you a question?”

Instead of answering, Slit merely shrugged and went back to scour the car wreck for valuables.

Angharad let her eyes wander. The canyon rose before and above her, framing the sky in a small jagged rectangle. The books they read at the vault spoke of grey skies when people were sad. More than once they had wondered how sad someone had to be for the sky to change colour. For as long as she could remember the sky had always been blue, sometimes red or orange during dawn and dusk, sometimes almost black. It contrasted with the strong browns and yellows of the rock, setting heaven and earth apart with sharp lines. There was no horizon to speak of, the canyon resembling a large room rather than the outdoors. And as if a giant mechanic had thrown away his broken cars, the remains of the road war lay strewn about, black and gray, some parts glinting metallic in the sun.

 _Chrome_ , Angharad thought _, shiny and chrome_.

“What is valhalla like?”

The clang of something hard hitting metal told Angharad Slit banged his head against the car's frame.

“What?”

“Valhalla. Your afterlife. What is it like?”

 


	5. Valhalla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perpetually angry Slit, pure cinnamon roll Nux and 100% done with everything Angharad. What a mix.

Shiny, Slit thought, that was what Valhalla was like.

“It's where all the war boys are.” he said, searching for words she could understand. Chrome meant nothing to a breeder. “There's gates, real big, the entire war rig could fit twice. And beyond the gates is the Fury Road. Where the guzzolene never runs out, where all war boys are full-lifes and riding at the Immortan's side.” Cold wind gusted over them, as the sun dipped behind the canyon. The shadows stretched too long to see by, but Slit rummaged through the wreck to avoid the breeder's gaze anyway.

All war pups heard the same story when they first entered the Citadel. If they used their temporary bodies to please the Immortan his hand guided them to Valhalla. V8 gave them strength to last as long as they needed to. And when they died there'd be the gates. The gates were there, they said …

 

The blasted breeder still looked at him! Was that all she could do, fix those bright eyes at him every turn he took? He turned his back, but still it followed. It dug into his back, tore pieces off his skin, opened him up and laid him bare.

“Stop staring at me like that.”

The breeder frowned.

“I'm not doing anyth-”  
“Yes you are!”

Slit spun around. Echoes of his voice bounded across the canyon. He didn't care. Let the rock riders hear him. Let the whole world hear him.

“You are always gawking at me, always looking for weaknesses. You think I'm lying about valhalla, lying about the Immortan, lying about the gates. He's alive and the gates are real and I am awaited. You're the one who's lying, always lying about everything. You're wrong about everything, even your eyes are wrong, wrong, wrong.”

The breeder sat unperturbed in the same spot. He tore at his lumps, his ear ringing with pain but keeping him focused. Anger and pain were good. Those were chrome feelings, those he held onto.

“Of all things, why are my _eyes_ wrong?”  
“Because you're not like us!” he screamed and that shut her up. Nux stopped working on his rig and looked over to them. “You look like us, but you're not! You're a breeder, you belong to the Immortan. He made you special, he let you touch him and worship him. No war boy is allowed so close to the Immortan as you are. He'd have guided you to Valhalla if you'd just asked, even if your death was not chrome. Not like us. We have to earn it because we're not _special_ like you. You're different, that's why the Immortan wants you back so badly. War boys are mediocre to him unless they prove their worth but you, you! _You he loves!_ ”

She punched him square in the jaw. The force of it sent him crashing into the car, pressed the air out of his lungs, filled his mouth with blood. He sputtered and clung to the frame, his knees buckling under him.

“What the Immortan did to me was _not love_. He raped me, raped all of us! How dare you speak of me as blessed!”

“Ungrateful whore! He should have raped _me_ instead of you. I would have thanked him on my knees instead of running off! I'm the one he should have raped!”  
“You don't even know what the word means!”

 

“It's a bad thing.”

Both Slit and Angharad whipped around to see Nux standing in the spare light of dusk. He shrunk under their combined scrutiny but said:  
“Capable taught me. It's when someone touches the soft bits of you and won't stop even if you say no. It's not right to do it to someone. It hurts even when the touching has stopped.”

Angharad leaned against the car frame that Slit used for support.

“That's right, Nux.”

He showed her one of his proud smiles followed by a frown directed at the other war boy.

“Don't care. Don't care.” Slit muttered to himself. “I'd be strong, I wouldn't run away, no matter how much it hurt. And then I'd get to go to Valhalla. If the Immortan raped me, I'd see the gates. They'd be there, and they'd open for me.”

“Slit …”

“Shut up.”

He sunk down against the frame and drew his knees to his chest.

“They were supposed to be there. Everyone always said when you die, you'd see the gates. Why didn't I see them?”

Neither Nux nor Angharad answered him. As one they sat to his left and right, refusing to leave Slit to himself even if they had no wisdom to share. The place provided little view, but the three stared at the from dusk purple inked rocks like at the last revelation of the old world.

Angharad's leg reminded her with a dull throbbing just how many steps away from home she was. With no small amount of resentment she thought she'd bite it off herself, if it meant reuniting with the Wives. Judging from Nux' sullen look he entertained similar thoughts. Although Angharad didn't presume to know what bits he thought about biting off.

The further dusk progressed the colder it got. Eventually one of them had to get up and bring blankets. At the moment that point lay as far ahead as repairing the car and driving home. Shoulder by shoulder, they shared body heat as well as desolation.

“I'm sorry for breaking Valhalla.” Nux said after a while. Slit shrugged.

“Probably was broken anyway. Stupid place, who'd want to go there? Just boring roads and boring fights and never dying. Was so glad when Morsov died, didn't have to see his stupid face anymore. I bet he's sitting in Valhalla, holding the gates closed.”

Nux chuckled under his breath.

“Ace would give him a beating for that. Never got to have any fun with him around.”

“Yeah. Better he's in Valhalla and we're here.”

“Yeah.”

Silence descended again upon the trio. Eventually Nux got up to gather blankets and some leftover provisions they'd scavenged.

“Breeder?”

“Angharad.”

“What?” Slit blinked at her as if she'd cursed him.

“Angharad. That's my name. Not breeder.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Slit appeared to mull it over for a while. Or perhaps he'd forgotten he wanted to say something in the first place. Just as she decided it to be the latter, he spoke up again.

“Ang-”

“Angharad.”

“Angha- Ang- … Your name is stupid. No one can say it.”

Not bothering to suppress a sigh, she carded her fingers through her hair.

“Then use Splendid. But get to the point, will you?”

“Splendid.” he repeated. Finding the name to his satisfaction he continued: “Can you touch me soft?”

Now it was her turn to blink in confusion.

“Touch you … soft?”

“Did I stutter? Touch. Me. Soft. Like that Capable touched Nux.”

“What about Valhalla?”  
He frowned. “Don't matter.”

Envy, it seemed, replaced his crisis of faith. Mindful of every twitch and frown, Angharad laid an arm around Slit and pulled him close enough for his head to rest in the crook of her shoulder. She laid her cheek on it and began caressing his arm. The war boy was stiff as a metal pipe, hands dug in his pants. This had been a foolish idea. She made to pull back, but Slit grabbed her hand and pushed it down on his shoulder again.

“No! Stay.” he ordered and then, almost as an afterthought: “Please.”

So she did and found him gradually relaxing in her hold. When Nux came back, arms full of a large blanket and a small bag of food for them to share, she could have sworn Slit stuck out his tongue at him. Nux reacted by settling down at Angharad's other side and cuddling up to her too much like Cheedo and unlike the crazed war boys she'd thought them to be. With some amount of shuffling and elbowing each other in the stomach they managed to drape the blanket evenly over themselves, the bag of food in Angharad's lap for everyone to reach. She munched on the dried nuts and fruit, most of which she despised, and otherwise paid mind only to Slit breathing slowly against her collarbone and Nux idly playing with a strand of her hair.

“What happened to your baby?” Nux asked after what felt like hours. Angharad woke from her doze and took a moment to reassess where she was and with whom. She found Nux staring down at her belly as if he'd just noticed it shrunk from the first time they met.

“I lost it.”

“Did you look for it?”

Her laughter shook Slit awake who growled and pulled his part of the blanket straight.

“No, Nux. Not like that. It died.”

He didn't say anything but traced her stretchmarks with wonder in his eyes. Angharad swallowed.

“Stop touching me there.”

Nux pulled away immediately, unhurt by her rejection, and rested it on his own knee.

“Do you think babies go to Valhalla when they die?” he wondered.

“Don't be a rusthead.” Slit said. “What'd they do in Valhalla? They can't even drive. Stop laughing. It's true. Their legs are too short. They'd never reach the pedals.”

But no matter how much Slit glared at her, Angharad continued laughing. Her whole body shook with it, shoulders hunched, belly aching. She didn't care that Slit complained about her shaking, didn't feel the cold when the blanket fell from her shoulders. It was hilarious! Everything was. Here she sat with two war boys bickering about if newborns had an afterlife, while the stitches on her stomach hadn't healed yet. She barely noticed when her hysteric laughter devolved into crying.

“None of this would have happened if we'd stayed at the Citadel.” she said madly giggling and pushed Nux away, who'd tried to dry her tears with the blanket. “My leg wouldn't hurt and my baby'd still be alive. I hated it. Every hour for two hundred and fifty days I despised this _thing_ growing in me and then we fled and it became _my_ baby, not the Immortan's and I didn't even get to give him a name.”

Talking became impossible then, with sobs the only noise she could make anymore. At some point Nux must have taken her hand for he squeezed and rubbed its back while his own shook in distress. She didn't have the strength to tear it away. But neither did she care anymore.

“Sump.” Slit said out of the blue. “Crankshaft. Tack. Flathead. Saw.”

He continued his weird litany of words. Most of them foreign to her ears, parts of machines and tools, like the worlds worst poem. He tried to name the baby. This unforseen helpfulness dried Angharad's tears as surely as dehydration would.

“What was the first one?” she asked and wiped her nose with the linen of her clothes.

“... Sump.” Slit said again, apparently as surprised as she was that it had worked. “That's at the bottom of an engine, where the oil collects.”

Angharad found herself no longer surprised at war boy names, if that was where they took their inspiration from.

“That … that will do.” she said weakly. Nothing had changed. Their situation was still the same, she still hurt all over but now her dead baby had a name and somehow that changed everything after all. More for the gesture than the name, perhaps. Nux, reassured that she'd stopped crying and wasn't likely to start again, tucked them all into the blanket again, including Slit, who snapped at him out of pure spite. She attributed it to his exhaustion that he almost bit her arm in the process. He mumbled something that might have been apology, might have been complaint about her inconvenient placement of limbs. Angharad was too tired to inquire. She leaned back, Slit curled up against her right, Nux at her left and closed her eyes. Just for a minute to rest them a bit.


	6. Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like writing this, but since these kids are already pretty close to him, the only way I got to keep writing it, is to add in some more plot. So, here you go. Plot.
> 
> EDIT (26/07): I'm sorry for the delay in putting up the next chapter. Real life did some mean things to me, but I promise I haven't forgotten about this story. The next chapter will be up by the end of next week at the latest. In the meantime, I want to thank you for all the lovely comments. Your support means a lot to me.

Slit woke before the others. Dawn was still hours away, not a sound breaking the peace of night. Something must have woken him, but the only noise was Nux' soft snoring, something he'd learned to sleep to years ago, and the breeze sifting through the sand like a pup looking for bugs to eat. He looked around as far as he could, still confined in Splendid's embrace. Her hand lay warm and heavy on his shoulder and of all the points where their bodies connected, hip to hip, cheek on his head, her chest against his arm, this was the one touch he needed to shake off the most. Nux had dropped into Splendid's lap over the course of the night and mumbled something incoherent as Slit winding himself out of her hold disturbed their motionless rest.

“...mmSlit?” He slurred, still mostly asleep from the way he stared at a point about three feet to Slit's right.

“Just taking a piss, shut your jaw and go back to sleep.”

Nux made a noise of acknowledgment and nodded off before Slit turned away.

 

They'd spend days in this place but the rock riders still hadn't returned. As he relieved himself, Slit stared at one of their abandoned camps, dark spots from where fires had burned, chalk and engine grease on the walls depicting badly drawn figures of humans on bikes. This was a good space for a small tribe, easy to defend with just a few people, close to the Citadel with its water and fuel, and ample opportunity to extort travelers for passage to the east. Perhaps the road war scared them off, but Slit wouldn't have given up this spot if it were his. Not that it mattered, as long as they let him be. It would pay to get out of this place soon, however. If the rock riders truly were gone, this turf would be highly contested in no time. With just the three of them they didn't stand a chance. Slit was already on his way back, wondering idly how to snatch enough blanket to drive the cold away without waking the others, when he saw the lights. They came from beyond the canyon and signed the same code the Bullet Farm and Gas Town used to signal the war rig. It meant: “We know where you are and we won't shoot if you don't make a wrong move.”

There were war boys out there who knew about their presence.

Slit stood halfway between the open road and their camp, debating over which way to turn. The lights were close, maybe an hour's brisk walk away. He could see how many there were and if they were a threat and be back before anyone was any the wiser. It'd be useful to know if they planned on attacking. On the other hand, Splendid would likely not appreciate him wandering off by himself. She still hadn't taken the chain off his neck and even though the weight no longer bothered him, he still wanted it gone. Just a quick look then. Count their numbers, how many rigs they'd got. If they had news from the Citadel.

 

“What if he's hurt?” Nux said not for the first time that morning. So far Angharad had been able to distract him by making him focus on repairing the car, the search for parts arduous enough without a second trained pair of eyes to look.

“Slit can look after himself. And if he's in trouble we'll have a much better chance at finding and rescuing him if we have a working vehicle, so keep working.”

Nux followed her order, although it didn't mean his worry lessened.

“Where would he go? He's got no water, no car and he's nowhere near.”

Angharad didn't have an answer for Nux, so she merely told him to focus on the car and stop racking his brains over it. She herself kept on the lookout for Slit while assisting Nux as best she could, keeping her face carefuly void of worry. Should have chained the little lizard to the wreck to keep him from running off. The waters only knew what he was up to now.

Morning turned to noon before Slit returned.

Nux spotted him first, quenching his thirst sitting on the car, while Angharad gathered what little supplies they had left.

“Slit!” he shouted. “Slit! V8, I thought you bit the dust!”

He slid off the hood, almost spilling the water in his hurry, and blinked as Angharad rushed past him. Slit didn't have a chance to complain before she took his face in her hands and brushed her thumb over his cheeks.

“Are you hurt? What happened? And where the hell have you been?” Slit made a variety of unappreciative noises, pushing at Angharad like a child faced with uncomely food. Growled like a dog when she traced his scars and wounds to make sure none of them broke open since the night before.

“'m not hurt. Stop treating me like a pup.”

Instead of cowering before his glare, Angharad merely spun Slit around to check his back for any wounds. She skimmed down his waist and thought hearing him swallow giggles, although with his general squirming and complaining it was impossible to tell.

“You run off like a pup, I'm gonna treat you like one. Nux said he saw you last when you went for a leak. Did you get lost? Should we have put up a night light?”

Once again Angharad turned him so they were face to face again.

“You're doing that on purpose to bother me, groping me and all.” Slit muttered, his flaking white paint revealing a faint blush. Angharad smiled and hugged him close one last time. Slit stiffened in her embrace, arms spread and grasping air. He caught Nux' eye over her shoulder and glowered at him until his stupid grin fell off his face.

“You deserve being a little annoyed after running off like that. Lions lick their young, so consider yourself lucky. Nux finished with the repairs, and would have sooner, had you been here to help look for parts.”

For pure show Slit walked over and inspected the fixed car. Nux was a good black-thumb, but he'd sooner go pantsless into battle than on a rig he didn't know.

“What's lions?” Nux asked while they stowed the last of their water away in the rig. Behind him Slit huffed but said nothing.

“They're animals. Like dogs, but bigger and with shorter snouts.” Angharad said, trying and probably failing to describe something she'd only ever seen as a picture in a book, to someone for whom even the concept of books was foreign. Nux still looked at her in wonder.  
“Bigger than dogs?” he stared off into space and Angharad knew what he was going to say even before she saw Slit lick his lips. “Gotta be so much meat on that.”

Shaking her head in exasperation, she nudged Nux to take the driver's seat, while she climbed into the back. But instead of following her command, he took the wheel, one he'd put aside until now and cradled it gently. He traced the steel skull welded into the centre. Stared at the car with something like longing. And handed the wheel to Slit.

He didn't even notice until Nux nudged him with it and then he stared down at it brushing his chest.

“You drive.” Nux said as if it wasn't obvious. The boys shared eye contact and something unspoken passed between them. Slit took the wheel and meandered over to the car like in a dream, while Nux took up residence next to Angharad.

After years as a lancer, dying, being denied Valhalla, his driver handed him the wheel without a fight. Connecting it to the steering column felt like breathing chrome. The crescendo of engines coming to life reverberated through his body. Slit sat and wondered at how different everything was from here. The angles all had changed, the seat, between the wheel and the back, legs surrounded by metal frame, felt sheltered.

“Any time now.” Splendid said and Slit grunted at her. Fucking breeder didn't understand. Finally he was in control. No longer banished to the outside of the car, but inside, deciding where it went. He was the _driver_.

 

“ _How am I supposed to do that without a fight?”_

“ _You figure it out.” said the Imperator, taking a step towards him. The man towered over him but Slit didn't back down. “You want in with us? Get back at that traitor Furiosa?”_

“ _Yeah. Yeah, of course.”_

_What a question that was. These war boys were still loyal to the Immortan and had watched his approach from the moment he stepped away from the canyon. They'd welcome him with a flattering six armed guards to offer him to join._

“ _Then you do as you're told. Your own rig, Valhalla. We can give you that.”_

_Slit swallowed, his mouth uncomfortably moist from the water these war boys had shared with him. His neck hurt from having to look up at the Imperator but he didn't dare break eye contact._

“ _I don't care how you do it. Get us that filth Nux and the Breeder. Alive.”_

 


	7. War boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience. Real life is (mainly) sorted out, so the next few chapters should be up shortly.

From afar the Citadel looked like heads sticking out from the ground with a mop of green hair covering their skulls. The giants buried in the sand slept the world away. It was said that if the Immortan fell they would wake and the land would tremble as they rose from the ground to lay waste to the earth. They hadn't moved so far. Slit wasn't sure whether that proved or disproved Immortan Joe's immortality. Whatever it was, there was no doubt the stone giants would shake their heads in disgust if they knew what kind of lice made their home there.

_Furiosa_.

Slit's gaze traveled along the sand, its hills and wide expanse pinning the horizon low.

_Furiosa stealing the Immortan's most valuable treasures._

His thumb traced the rough texture of the steering wheel. The leather unfamiliar under his hands.

_Furiosa turning war boys against the Immortan._

Slit drummed a simple rhythm on the wheel, tried his best to ignore Nux' chattering from behind. Something about Capable. Something about home.

_Furiosa destroying the war rig and blocking off the pursuit._

Individual trees came into sight as they drew closer to the Citadel. The only place in this land that still held green.

_Furiosa usurping the throne that belonged to the Immortan_.

Splendid said his name, worry lacing her tone. He was torn between asking her to touch him again, sharing her warmth and calm, and telling her to shut her mouth.

_Splendid falling off the rig and Furiosa driving on._

To his left Gas Town sent out steady signals with its mirrors. The reflections so obtrusive they were almost noise. Unpleasant, screeching noise.

_The Immortan cradling Splendid's body, lamenting her fate_.

Slit grabbed the wheel harder and turned the car around. Nux and Splendid cried out behind him but when she reached forward to keep him on course to the Citadel, he elbowed her in the face and pushed down on the gas. The Citadel rushed out of sight to the sound of Nux cursing his name and Splendid pushing and pulling him to little effect.

Neither of the three were healed enough for a fight, but Slit was in the better position. He drove straight toward Gas Town, away from the traitor Furiosa, away from the wrong future.

“What are you doing! Turn around!”

“Shut up, whore!”

Splendid bit him, teeth poking holes in the jacket she'd given him. He howled and pulled his arm away but the damage was already done. Warm blood stuck leather and skin together. With no little effort he brought the swerving car back on track. There were two rigs coming from Gas Town to escort them back. He hoped. His arm flared with pain as Splendid dug into the wound she'd made.

“Fuck, just stop it!” he ordered, prompting Splendid to halfway climb over the driver's seat and attempt to throttle him. He coughed and pried her fingers from his neck. If the broken groan was any indication, her flailing had caused her to kick Nux in the gut. The two of them together might have been able to overpower him, but there was barely space for one person to reach forward, much less two. He was glad for that. Splendid alone proved plenty of a challenge. In the end he had to use his knees to keep the wheel steady, while he turned around, took her head between his hands and slammed it down onto the seat. She didn't make a sound and for a second fear rose like bile in him that he'd killed her. But then he saw the unfocused movement of her eyes and her clenching fingers. Breathing a sigh of relief he pushed her into the back seat.

 

 

The first thing Angharad would do once she returned to the Citadel was make Furiosa teach her to fight. No unnecessary kills she'd said with the same conviction that she refused to pick up a gun. Now, lying in the dust with a bag over her head and the ropes cutting into her hands, she wanted to burn them all down. She didn't know where Nux was. They'd dragged him off somewhere else. Slit was with him, but that was no longer a good thing. If it ever was.

The bastard. That crazed, backstabbing, traitorous bastard. For one minute she'd fooled herself into believing him to have changed. Convinced herself there was more to the war boy than white paint and madness. Nux should never have trusted him with the wheel. _She_ should never have trusted him with carrying his own chain.

But hindsight contained no helpful knowledge. Instead of dwelling on Slit's betrayal, Angharad focused on escape. No light filtered through the hood and all sounds came from far-away. No windows then and probably a room far away from the main compound. If there were war boys nearby, she'd have heard them. Wriggling into an upright position wasn't easy. She couldn't use her arms to balance herself, and more than once she fell over, her shoulder and chin catching the brunt of the fall. Even the dust tasted of guzzolene.

As she struggled with another attempt – _keep moving, keep acting, you're only losing if you're standing still –_ steps approached. At least three of them, though the echo made it hard to tell. They walked with purpose, quick as if anticipating something. As if they couldn't wait to reach their destination. Angharad redoubled her efforts, dragging herself forward until she bumped against a wall and used it to lever herself up. From there it was easy to crawl along on her knees to find something, a sharp stone, a rough patch in the wall, to chafe off the ropes tying her hands and feet. The men were close enough now to hear their voices, talking over each other like excited pups. They stopped in front of her cell, keys jangling between their chatter. She stopped moving about, pressed instead her hands to the wall and scraped the rope against it. It was weak material, frayed already from overuse. They probably never meant to keep her here long. Angharad would make sure they didn't.

 

“Well done! There is a rig waiting for you in the garage first thing in the morning.” The Imperator praised and punched Slit's shoulder. He winced and rubbed the sore spot, grinning uncertainly. His own rig. That was good. Even if Nux let him drive before, it was still his car. Now he'd get his own and all he had to do was deliver the breeder and his traitorous driver.

“With you at our side, we'll retake the Citadel in no time. The Immortan will be proud of us. He'll return and ride with us to Valhalla, shiny and chrome.”

A war pup approached with two bowls of grub. Bread, dipped in guzzolene, mixed with meat. Slit dug in heavily. It'd been ages since he last had proper food.

“He's not here, then?” he asked between bites.

“As long as Furiosa has the Citadel, we are unworthy of the Immortan's presence.” The Imperator declared. It made sense, Slit supposed. They'd have to do him proud after losing the Citadel. But still things felt off. They shouldn't. He was among his own again, repainted in white, his own rig waiting for him. He even knew his surroundings, had spent time on the Bullet Farm before as a pup. It should feel like home.

“Where've you taken Sp- the breeder and Nux?”

“Nux is on the courtyard with the Flayers. The breeder we took down to the storage rooms. Some of the boys are down there with her right now. You can have a go later.”

Slit stared down at his meal, brows scrunched together.

“What are they doing to her?”

“Poke and prod her a bit, I expect. Make sure she's still shine for the Immortan when he comes back.”

“What if she says no?”

The Imperator gave him a weird look.

“Who cares?”

The appetite had left Slit. He pushed the bowl away, acutely aware of the half a dozen war boys guarding the Imperator when he said: “No. You've got to care. We've got to go down and tell the boys to stop touching if she says no.”

Instead of giving the order, the Imperator merely laughed incredulously.

“You been in the sun too long, war boy? It's a breeder, they make sounds with their mouths but they're not thinking like you and me … what was that?”

Another cut-off scream followed the first one. The war boys were already up in arms when a third one came, this one garbled as if the perpetrator had his throat full of liquid. Slit reached for his knives out of pure instinct, the promise of a fight making his blood thrum. Then he remembered Splendid.

He had to sneak out, make sure no one touched her without her wanting it and be back before anyone knew. A heavy hand on his shoulder smothered his plan.

“Where do you think you're going?”

His first instinct was to bow and say nothing, fall in line. But as surely as the sounds of fighting drew closer, gunshots interspersed with the shouting and screaming of war boys, Slit knew a battle when he saw it. Something he had yet to back down from.

“Find Splendid. Should have never brought her here.”

The Imperator shook him, made his bad ear ring and his balance falter.

“Idiot. What did you _think_ we would do, boy?”

He didn't know. Bring them home. Punish them, of course, but not like that. Never like that. War boys didn't do that sort of thing.

“Fuck off. You and your mediocre gang can shove it.”

His knife sliced the Imperator's nose clean off. He roared and lashed out at Slit but he was fast, had dodged already and went in for another slice. Would have gotten it too if at this moment the door didn't open and, in the second they all took to stare, three bullets felled the three war boys closest to it. Slit stared.

_She's the wrong colour_ , he thought and chastised himself for being foolish. It was just blood. She'd bled before. Never from her mouth though, never so much that all her clothes were soaked in it. The Imperator recovered from the surprise first. He slammed Slit into the table. The edge bit into his spine. His knife clattered to the ground. The Imperator loomed over him. He didn't need a weapon to bash his skull in. Slit squeezed his eyes shut, afraid of death like no war boy should be. Another shot resounded from the walls. The Imperator sank lifeless to the ground.

“You!”, Angharad said as she dragged Slit to his feet. “You deserve a bullet right between the eyes.”

This was probably the point a better war boy would have apologised. But owning up to his mistakes wasn't something he excelled at. This close to her he recognised the blood dripping from her was not her own. Even her teeth were red. The blood all over her was his fault, he'd made the wrong choice but admitting it would be mediocre.

“Nux is in the courtyard.” he said instead. Giving her the only useful piece of knowledge he had.

He didn't know what kind of reaction to hope for. He traitored her, just like Nux had traitored him. She should have shot him already but instead she just … stared, shotgun resting at her side. It was deeply disturbing and not for the signs of murder painted all over her. Her eyes darted towards the dead Imperator and when they returned to him, Slit swore her expression had changed.

She let go of him and marched out of the door.

Left him behind.

Slit's knees buckled under him. He hit the ground with a low thud. He fucked up. He was worse than Nux. He'd traitored Splendid _and_ the war boys.

“Mediocre. Mediocre. Mediocre.”

Stupid, mediocre piece of shit he was. His lumps acted up, put sounds in his ear again and he dug his fingernails in to make them stop. It hurt bad enough for him to cry out.

He blinked away the tears. Through their haze it took a while to recognise the blurry shapes in front of him as feet.

Splendid. She'd come back for him.

“One step out of line and I _will_ kill you.” she said. “Now come with me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Slit being indecisive as shit was deliberate. In my head he's just very lost and torn, because on some level he knows the whole thing with the war boys and the Immortan was wrong and he can't go back to that even if it wasn't. On the other hand his only alternative is Splendid and he has no idea how to fit into her kind of life. But I'll expand on that next chapter :)


	8. Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot I needed to have things actually happen before I could get to the soul-searching and self-reflection, but I'm writing the next part already so if my muse doesn't get up and leave suddenly, the next chapter might even be up today.

On the fences surrounding Gas Town hung the skins of those who'd fallen out of the People Eater's favour. Full of holes and frayed from wild animals, burned dark and leathery from the sun, they flapped in the wind like obscure dresses. Some, lumpy and shriveled up, were still painted white.

Nux pulled air into his lungs through clenched teeth. All his efforts went into keeping his arm as still as possible. Every movement, shivering with the pain, jarred the broken bones in his arm. The sinew along his arm threatened to tear. After they'd broken his arm, Nux had given up on trying to pull off the manacles. Now he shifted his weight to his toes, scraping on the ground for purchase. He was chained too high to comfortably stand, too low to really hang in the air. Carefully he pushed his breath out again, focusing on one task at a time. Keeping the fear at bay. Bone chafed against bone. A breeze came up, welcome to his hot cheeks, if it weren't for the sand billowing up and cutting in his abraded skin. The sudden shock of pain made him jerk. He groaned.

One of the Flayers, a small man with uncanny strength and clean scrubbed skin, red from sunburn, approached him from the side, just barely on the edge of his view. Nux kept trying to follow his movements. The strain on his eyes gave him a headache. In his hand, swinging it leisurely, was a large mallet. The same tool used to crush his arm now pummeled his chest.

Nux screamed.

The Flayer drove the mallet against his body in rapid succession, spurred on by his victim's pathetic sounds. Careful not to break skin yet, he battered the war boy's already weak body ignorant of his flinching.

By the time his torturer paused again, Nux hung in his bonds, no longer able to keep his weight from his broken arm. Agony crashed through his body, no longer centered on one spot but emanating from everywhere at once.

For some time now the compund was in uproar. Attackers, from without or within Nux couldn't tell but hopefully it meant Angharad was safe. Maybe when she went back to the Citadel she remembered him and got someone to free him. Capable would ask about him. Hopefully. He'd just have to hold out and endure until they came. The Flayer, unimpressed by the ruckus around him, struck a blow against his knee. What would have been a scream dissolved into a whimper as pain-induced sobs clogged his throat.

No begging. No matter how much it hurt, never beg a Flayer to stop. It only made things worse. Nux swallowed his sobs with deep, shuddering breaths. He stared him right in the eyes as the Flayer took another swing. Made a soft noise of surprise at the war boy coming up behind him. Slit grabbed the mallet and pulled the Flayer backwards, toppling him over.

“No! Let me, let me!” Nux cried out as loud as his raw throat allowed him, as Slit made to shiv the man.

“Can't stand up, can't do war!” Slit shouted back, one nick of his knife making the flawless skin of the Flayer bleed. “Gonna cut you up real good, make you useless for skinning.” he said to the Flayer.

“That's _my_ kill!”

“What are you gonna do, all banged up like that, make war pup eyes at him?”

“ _Slit!_ ”

Slit merely laughed and continued his almost artistic slicing and dicing of the Flayer's skin who appeared more furious than pained. Nux struggled in his bonds, cursing everything about Slit from his scars to his piss. He almost hit Angharad in the face.

“You are both smegs.” she said, steadying Nux' broken arm as she slipped it out of the shackles.

Nux was too preoccupied being angry at Slit to question her motive of coming back for him.

The moment he was free he stumbled towards Slit.

“It's my turn now, give it!”

“Forget it, I got to him first!”

They wrestled for the knife, both hurting themselves more than they did each other.

“You traitored us, now you steal my kill!”  
“I saved your ass, you little shit!”

“Will you stop it? Both of you!”

They glowered at each other, neither wanting to give up the fight. The Flayer lay helplessly between the two war boys, blubbering over his damaged skin. Slit bent down quickly and cut his throat clean through.

“Hey!”

“Too slow!”

“Just get going you two! Slit, where's the garage?”

Slit bounded away from Nux, his grin dying on his lips as he came face to face with Angharad. One disappointing glare later he led them towards the garage. There had only been a few war boys to begin with and most of them Angharad had already taken out during her initial escape. The ones she'd hurt but not killed would not be in any shape to fit. She wiped away the blood around her mouth, wishing for some water to wash down the taste of blood and meat. There were bits of skin stuck between her teeth.

Still the lack of pursuit troubled them. She was almost relieved when they faced a few stragglers, disorganised without an Imperator to give them orders. They attacked but under Angharad's clear commands the three took them out without a hitch.

They reached the garage to find almost all cars gone.

“Shit.” Slit hissed, at the same moment Nux said: “They'll be waiting for us outside.”

“No shit?”

“Pick the fastest rig.” Angharad said to Nux before the boys could start another fight. “We can't face them head-on but the Citadel isn't far. Maybe we can outrun them.”

 

Half a dozen rigs cornered them almost the second they were out of Gas Town. It was only thanks to Nux' driving they evaded the first wave. A few daring turns, breaks and accelerations led two pursuit vehicles to crash into each other. The heat of the explosion burned the fine hairs on Angharad's arms. Slit threw lances at those rigs that dared come too close, taking them out one by one. Even chased by Immortan Joe's war party, she'd never seen a war boy be this precise. Not a single lance missed its target. Even so, they were too numerous for one lone rig.

Two cars came up to their left and right, with another one in front giving Nux a hard time evading a crash. Slit, for all his aiming skills, couldn't split himself in two.

“You ever even throw a lance?” he shouted over the roaring of engines as Angharad grabbed one of them from their stand.

“You can do it, can't be that hard!” she shot back. For the first time since they met, Slit laughed. The sound was drowned out by the chase, but at the very least it looked nice, wrinkles forming around his eyes, making even the blood-shot one seem a bit more human. She turned her back to him and aimed at the car almost touching them. Her first attempt missed but the driver had to swerve and gave them some ground. It was harder than Slit made it look, the jolting of the rig, trying not to fall off all while trying to hit a moving target all adding to the difficulty.

“Pick a small spot.” Slit said into her ear. She almost dropped her lance. “Use your free arm to make a line and aim along it. Then throw.”

He didn't watch her follow his advice, already busy again with clearing out his side of the rig, but when she whooped as her lance hit, blowing up the enemy rig, excited despite herself, he bumped their shoulders in acknowledgment.

Even as she grabbed another lance, Angharad knew she'd have nightmares of this. Now the frenzy of the chase buzzed through her veins, now all she saw were targets, hyped up by the battle cries of her war boys. All there was now was the challenge. Later would come the impact of having condemned innocent war boys, no different from Nux or Slit, to fiery death. They were where they'd been just a day before, when Slit had turned off road to Gas Town. The Citadel lay before them. And there were cars coming from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing torture scenes. They're slower than normal action scenes but you can't fill the space with introspection, because you generally don't think a lot about how the colour of the sky is an analogy for your life when you're getting the shit beaten out of you. So yeah, I really hate writing those.


	9. Home

When the Immortan still ruled the Citadel, his word was prophesy. His stories the only ones repeated, his the only sermon worth listening to. The war boys followed his doctrine without question and never learning anything more about the world than what the Immortan gave them, they had little reason to find it lacking. Even so, there were superstitions. No matter how hard the Immortan cranked down on them, they could never be fully eliminated. No one who breached the gates to Valhalla returned to their world except for Joe, but still the war boys spoke in hushed whispers of the ghosts of the Fury Road. Sometimes you could see them, they said, their dead war boy friends joining them for a raid just at the edge of your vision. Knowing they weren't supposed to talk of the dead returning, it had taken some prodding for the war boys to share this particular belief with the Wives. Capable was not superstitious. She didn't believe in ghosts. But there they were nonetheless.

“It's her! It's Angharad!” she screamed down at Toast through the sunroof, hanging on for dear life. It wasn't that Toast couldn't drive. She was better than some war boys. It was that she thought herself invincible behind the wheel. The war boys accompanying them looked on impressed as Toast gave the car another shot of nitro, rapidly closing the distance between them and the band of rogue war boys, pursuing a lone car.

“She's dead! Max saw her!”

Capable didn't question Max' word but that on the rig, back to a war boy throwing lances like the warrior goddesses in Miss Giddy's books, was the Splendid Angharad. Her clothes were stained with blood. Her eyes were wild. But it was her.

“Just make sure they don't get blown up!”

“Wasn't planning to! Tell the boys to circle around, we'll flank them!”

While Toast matched her speed to that of the rig, Capable waved the command to the war boys. Shouting was out of the question, Toast leading the charge by more than a margin, but simple commands could be relayed with the war boy's sign language. The lancers saluted their acknowledgment and passed the orders on to their drivers. Soon the party spread out.

They where close enough now to hear the shouting of the other war boys, dedicating their suicide attacks to the Immortan and Valhalla. Turning back around, Capable was face to face with Angharad.

“You're alive!” they shouted and laughed at their synchronicity. Capable stretched out her hands to help Angharad over to their own rig, but she shook her head.

“They're with me!” she shouted, pointing at the war boys on her rig. The one behind her, Capable thought he looked vaguely familiar, whipped around, as if their alliance was news to him. Then she pointed downward toward the driver's seat.

“I think you know that one.” she said.   
With Toasts manic driving it was no easy feat to crawl along the rig to get a glimpse at the driver. Capable had to wrap her legs around the back window frame and claw her right arm into that of the open sunroof.

“Capable! Glory be!”

“Is that …?” Toast sounded as incredulous as Capable felt.

Nux waved at her with one hand, the other steady on the wheel.

Ghosts, Capable thought, ghosts returned from Valhalla. Probably got sick of Immortan Joe's ranting up there. The airflow dried her tears before they could fully form and reminded her that now was not the time for the happy reunion. If they couldn't shake off the pursuit, she'd lose both Nux and Splendid a second time. Flinging herself back on top of the car, feeling as light as she hadn't in a long time, Capable took the rifle Toast held out for her. She wasn't as good as the Vuvalini but three shots popped two tires, leaving one of the pursuit vehicles in the sand. Six bullets later another two were forced out of the chase, the war boys on the cars cursing and flailing but helpless to rejoin the fight.

Only two were left now, but all of them heavy rigs, hard to damage with lances. Their wheels were protected as well, heavy metal slowing their speed but making them near impervious to damage. In the old times the war boys would have destroyed this one with their kamikaze attacks. They still wanted to, judging from the furtive looks they shot Capable. She shook her head sternly. Pounding on the roof to get Toast's attention she shouted: “Fang it! We can shake 'em off!”

The car lurched forward and gained even more speed. Questioning the wisdom of telling Toast to fang it, Capable buckled down on the lancer's perch, signaling Angharad to do the same. She pulled down the other war boy with her, covering his body half with her own as they ducked into cover. Their war party formed a protective ring around them, war boys slowing the enemy rig by blowing up billows of dust with their lances. It wasn't as chrome as exploding entire vehicles, but they had fun nonetheless.

 

For the first time since leaving the Citadel, Nux felt at home. War boy cries, engines roaring around him, the sand thrown up by the wheels of his allies making it nearly impossible to see by. People watching his ass. Being with Capable and the wives on their flight was shine, but it had been strange, also. They were different and few. Not even half the numbers Nux was used going into fight with. This was how it was supposed to be. Toast overtook him, nudging his car in a friendly way. He had to duck and twist his neck to spot Capable on the perch. It was worth it. She smiled at him so wide her teeth were showing and he grinned right back. He'd been wrong. This was _better_ than it was supposed to be. For perhaps the first time in his life, Nux couldn't wait for the cars to stop. All he could think of was Capable, sweet, chrome Capable being so close he could almost touch her. He didn't notice the engines rumbling softening, matched the speed without thinking. His chest hurt from being pressed into the wheel at this awkward angle but he'd rather be in pain than let Capable out of his sight now.

She jumped off the car the moment it came to a halt and he stumbled away from his, his aching body forgotten over Capable's strong arms that pulled him off his feet. They tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs, wasting precious water on tears.

“Nux.” she said and made him whole again. “Nux.” she repeated and took away his pain. “Nux.” she said a third time and then she couldn't speak anymore. Her hands cradled his head, their foreheads bumped together.

Rocks dug into his back but Capable was on top of him, and his shoulder was wet from her tears and it was glorious, it was shine and chrome and lovely and every other good word he knew. Capable probably knew more good words and he'd ask her about them, right after he got his voice back.

For now Nux reveled in the knowledge that Angharad had brought him to the Citadel, to the other war boys and Capable. She'd taken him home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Nuxable is together again. Next chapter will continue with the happy reunion and pull in Angharad and the other sisters + Furiosa, so I'll prepare to write one giant cuddle pile. And there's also the question what to do about Slit ...


	10. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even begin to tell you how much I love all your comments. I do literal squeals of delight every time I see that little (1) that means one of you lovely people talked to me. I'm sorry I'm so shit about talking back, though. If you do have any suggestions or things you want to see more of, they're more than welcome. In the meantime, enjoy :)

Slit glowered at Nux rolling around on the ground with the Wife as if he was a pup and not a grown war boy. They cried - obviously, hitting the ground like they had must have hurt - but made no attempt to hide their faces. Nux lost the last of his paint ages ago and the water rivulets made his skin red and blotchy and why was he so excited about this breeder when she made him cry in front of everyone? Slit didn't like it. The other wife, the dark one, rushed towards him. He hissed and bared his teeth but she didn't even notice. Instead she went right past him towards Splendid without sparing him so much as a glance. They hugged and only so remained upright. At least Splendid could hug someone without falling over, Slit thought with a pointed glance at Nux, who'd begun poking at his breeder's cheeks and laughed when she did the same to him.

But Splendid too wasted water and so did the breeder she hugged and then there were even more crowding her. Even the Imperator was among them, sticking up like a pole between the shorter Wives, and she pressed her mouth to Splendid's cheeks. Splendid laughed and cried, like she had when she told him about her dead baby Sump, but it was different now, because he wasn't there and she wasn't crying about him and when she spoke he couldn't understand her words because he was too far away. It was all too much, too many breeders and everyone crying like they had any right to and Slit hated all of it.

He slunk away from the commotion, hoping they wouldn't notice him. It'd been better when it was just Nux and Splendid and him. They were all touching each other soft, who knew if they'd try it on him next? How they could stand pressing their bodies together in the heat eluded him. He should have stayed with the Gas Town people, should never have Splendid take him to the Citadel. The car was right there, no one was watching it. He could nick it and drive off before they knew it. But then the war rig from Gas Town was still out there and with his luck he'd run right into them.

They still hadn't stopped touching each other! Didn't they get tired of it? But they only changed positions, Nux and his breeder got up and the group around Splendid swallowed them whole. It had to be stuffy and hot, worse than sharing space with the war boys at night, because then at least the cold stopped you from getting drowsy. And anyone was up for a little scuffle if you kicked them a bit. Somehow Slit doubted any of the breeders punched each other before sleeping. What they did looked horrible and Splendid had to get sick of it, had to, because she was different, she threw lances and bit people's bits off.

“What about that one?”

They'd noticed him. Slit whistled through the holes in his scars. The sound always used to unsettle the war pups and cause them to leave him alone. It had to work with breeders. The one who'd spoken, white haired and tall, shied away but stuck her tongue out at him. He did it right back.

“Smeg-faced lizard.” she said and Slit would have taught her a lesson, any moment now, but Splendid stepped between them. Lucky breeder.

“He's …” she said and only now Slit realised that she could have them kill him in the least chrome way possible. Traitors at the Citadel got starved to death, dying mediocre and never reaching Valhalla. She'd said he belonged with her, when the Gas Town boys were chased them. But now the chase was over. All eyes were focused on him now, looking for weaknesses to exploit. Some of them thought he was weak already. Slit knew those looks. The pursing of the lips, the scrunching of the brows. Splendid had looked at him like that once, the first time she'd touched him soft and he'd begged her not to.

Even the Imperator stared at him and he pulled himself up straighter, hissed at the white-haired breeder again who hissed back without hesitation.

“He's reliable.” was what Splendid said and it was such a fat lie, Slit was surprised he didn't see it grow legs and run away. Nux seemed to be wondering the same thing. Although it was hard to tell, since his face was smoshed between his breeder's chest and Splendid's shoulder.

“He, uh, helped us escape Gas Town.”

Was she maybe talking about Nux instead of him? Everyone still bore their eyes through him, and the white-haired breeder still made faces, but perhaps he'd missed something and they really meant Nux.

If they did, they didn't tell him. The Imperator decreed he could stay and that seemed to be the end of it. The breeders chattered among themselves and then, one by one, dispersed. Nux with the red-haired one, the one who'd made faces at him trailing off with Furiosa and Cheedo. Slit watched her skipping steps to catch up to the Imperator. He'd found her, that was why he remembered her name. Before he became Nux' lancer, out on a raiding party and there she'd been, a full life girl, trying to hide, but Slit was faster, spotted her and dragged her out of her hole by the ankle. What a glorious day that had been. The Imperators thanking him for this find in the Immortan's name, praising his good eyes. Cheedo was the shinest, Slit thought. Except maybe Splendid, but she'd have made a better war boy than a breeder.

“Hey, war boy!”

Slit spun around. It was the short one, who looked at him as if his presence ruined her entire day.

“You should go in and get cleaned up. Cheedo will want to look at your injuries.”

“Don't tell me what to do.” Slit bit back, but she'd already stopped paying attention. She looked over the car they'd stolen from Gas Town, muttering to herself all the while. Of Splendid there was no trace. He hadn't seen her with the others but in all the chaos she might have gone anywhere. Her loss, if she wanted to forget about his betrayel. He certainly wouldn't crawl and beg for his punishment.

 

“You're not doing it right.” Slit declared as for the third time Cheedo barely touched him in an effort to dress his wounds. She'd cleaned them with fresh water, which at least had decently stung, even though he still balked at the waste of pouring undrunk water on bleeding wounds.

“What? How am I …?” She frantically tugged at the bandages, looking for a fault in her technique.

“You got to press harder, every pup knows that. It's not doing anything if you don't push down proper.”

He demonstrated on a small spot where a bullet grazed him by digging his thumb into the flesh and shuddering as it burned.

“But won't that hurt?” Cheedo asked, watching intently. Slit shot her a look. He might have found the prettiest wife for the Immortan, but certainly not the brightest.

“Of course it hurts. That's the _point_.”

She didn't seem convinced.

“I-I don't think it's supposed to hurt more. It never did when Miss Giddy took care of us.” she ventured but sounded unsure.

Slit scoffed and dismissed her statement with a wave of his hand.

“Breeders are different than war boys, everyone knows that. War boys need to really feel it when they heal, so they learn better next time.”

“I don't know …”

“ _Fine_.” Slit said, crossed his arms and stared off into the distance. “Do what you want. If it doesn't get better, it'll be your fault.”

As Cheedo started working again, with those same too soft touches, he pretended not to see her stupid smile.

One by one she wrapped his wounds in white linen, barely standing out from his skin. They itched like mad, but everytime he went to scratch, she nudged his hand away.

“Angharad said you helped her escape Gas Town.” she said after a while, almost finished with her work. Except for the scars in his face, but those didn't even bleed anymore. That was a good thing, for Slit had the sudden urge to run away. He squirmed on the stone slab which earned him another barely noticeable nudge.

“I did that.” he said carefully, praying to V8 his half-truth would pass. “Killed a lot of smegs, too. When I helped.”

“That's nice. N-not the killing. But that you were there with her. Nux is a good one, but he's in bad shape.”

His sweat turned cold. A war boy in bad shape was a war boy too far gone to be helped even with blood bags. They'd survived the chase and Nux'd been fine, he walked into the Citadel with that breeder of his. He'd been fine. When the Organic decreed a war boy in bad shape, they let him fight against one of the others, so he could at least earn himself a chrome death. But he'd been fine, he'd been just fine …

“W-wait, don't get up yet, I'm not finished.”  
She needn't have worried. Dizziness washed over Slit the moment he got up, forcing him down again. Growling he tried again but this time Cheedo held him in place, soft and with barely any pressure at all.  
“You can visit him later, he's with Capable now. I wouldn't … they'll want some privacy.”

“He's dying, gotta give him a shine death.”

“What? No! Nux's not dying. He's fine. He's badly hurt, but he'll be fine, he's good, no one's dying, _please_ hold still.”

The wet cloth on his face almost made him scream in surprise. Cheedo stood in front of him with her hands on his face, keeping him still as she dabbed away the dried blood around his mouth. His chin brushed her belly every time she breathed in.

This was wrong. The other war boys would see, the _Imperators_ would see, they could walk in any moment.

“I'm almost finished.” Cheedo tried to reassure him. Slit's heart pounded in his throat. Her hands smothered him, and they were too gentle, didn't hurt at all and there were other war boys around and they _saw_ and he'd get punished. He couldn't breathe, it was too warm, there was no air and a Wife _touched_ him and he'd get flayed alive when the Immortan found out. His vision fuzzed at the edges, things moved that weren't supposed to. They wouldn't kill him, no, that'd be too kind, they'd punish him and throw him to the Wretched. They were screaming his name already and grabbed at him with their fingers and it hurt, it _hurt_ so bad, he couldn't -

“Slit? Slit! Please, please talk to me. Please, I'm sorry, I didn't –”

The hands were gone, even though Slit still felt their echo. He scrambled back, hit the wall and kicked at Cheedo when she tried to follow. She knelt on the floor well out of reach and Slit focused on that, the picture of a Wife down by the sick strange enough to ground him. Cheedo was still talking.

“I'm so sorry, Slit, so sorry. I didn't want to make you cry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry …”

“'m not crying.” Slit said out of reflex. “'s just sweat.”

He blinked rapidly, salt stinging his eyes, pushing down the burning sensation to the back of his mind. The shivering he couldn't push away, no matter how hard he tried. Breathing in he managed but everytime he released the air in his lungs, his whole body was wracked with this damned twitching. He drew his legs up to his chest to hide the worst of it and pressed his eyes into his kneecaps so hard he saw white spots.

“Slit?”

“Go away.” he mumbled, shuffling deeper into the corner. “Go away. Don't touch me.”

“I won't … I-I'll …”  
“ _Go_ _away!_ ”

Her naked feet slapped on the stone as she ran off.

The moment he was alone, only the far-off banter of other war boys to provide a steady stream of noise, breathing came easier. Even the shivering stopped. Mostly.

This was all Splendid's fault. He bet she told all the breeders he liked being touched soft, blabbered to them how she touched him and he didn't fight her off like he should have. V8, he even _asked_ for it. If the Imperators knew, who spent months with the rod teaching the war boys that touching soft was for pups only. He should have never let her touch him. Furiosa knew, had to. V8, he was done for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Slit it's one step forward, two steps back. It's totally because of that super extreme conditioning. Me, enjoying making that little lizard suffer? Perish the thought!


	11. Stranger

Cheedo entered Furiosa's room crying. They gathered there, partly because it was one of the few private places to hold them all, partly because it was not the Vault. Angharad, under Furiosa's efficient care, felt already more human than she had during the chase. A cloth soaked in herbal remedies lay on her belly, which helped the wounds heal faster. They all perked up on Cheedo's arrival, the Dag by her side and cupping the back of her head, muttering soothing nonsense under her breath almost as soon as she'd crossed the threshold.

“What happened? Did someone hurt you?” Furiosa asked, also on her feet but where the Dag provided comfort, she looked for the culprit. Cheedo shook her head desperately.

“ _I_ hurt him. I just wanted to help but he started crying and I didn't even notice and he shook so badly and I didn't stop, I didn't see and he was crying and I didn't stop.”

The Sisters took the upset Cheedo into their midst, each one of them petting her in order to calm her down. Nux, who'd up until then had lain in Capable's lap, sat further away, giving the women their space. He looked on curious, but said nothing.

It took several minutes of cautious questioning and sobbed answers to reconstruct what happened.

“I'm a monster.” Cheedo cried. “He was crying and I didn't even notice. I'm as bad as the Immortan.”

“Crap.” Toast barked, causing Cheedo to flinch and the Dag to frown at her. “You're nothing like the Immortan.” Toast continued, softer. “You _did_ stop. Late, maybe, but when you saw he was crying you _stopped_. You couldn't have known he'd react this strongly.”

“But I should have. The other war boys were just like him but he … he looked so strong and, and intimidating, I thought nothing could hurt him. There's no excuse for what I did.”

The Sisters fell silent. Cheedo wept into the Dag's shoulder.

“Is he still down with the sick?” Angharad asked and, after Cheedo's affirmation, lifted herself up to her feet. The lack of cool packs on her leg made itself known immediately. It ached worse than it had on the way home.

“Let me go. I can talk to him.” Capable offered.

“No. Thank you, but it's better if I go.” If Slit in his pain attacked one of the sisters, she'd never forgive herself.

 

When Angharad got down to the cave, Slit was gone. She saw where he'd been, though, Cheedo's medical supplies lay scattered around. She nearly tripped over a cup of spilled water. Few war boys hung around. These days Cheedo and the Dag did most of their medicine up by the sun, working with better lighting and without the constant stench of blood and feces that even the most diligent scrubbing hadn't chased away. The fires, made for cleaning tools and cauterising wounds, had died down for lack of care. Mostly the boys came down here out of a lingering sense of familiarity. They didn't connect being sick with sunlight and thus they hid down here when they were in pain.

“You.” she said to one of them who immediately scrambled to his feet. He bowed so deep he fell over and had to steady himself on the stone slabs.

“Impe- Sister.” he said. Angharad quirked an eyebrow. She'd have to talk to the others about how the war boys perceived them. She wasn't entirely sure she felt comfortable with his first instinct to go for 'Imperator'.

“There was another war boy here just now. Slit. Big scars in his face, always scowling like someone spat in his meal. Do you know where he's gone?”

The war boy nodded.

“He was here, with Sister Cheedo. Wimped out on the medicine, though. Ran away, probably 'fraid of his punishment.”

The war boy pointed to the cave system that only the war boys really knew. His index finger was missing, the stump an ugly, scarred thing. He used his middle instead, smiling up at her.

“Thank you.” Angharad said and the war boy beamed at her like she'd blessed him.

“You gonna beat him good, yes?” he asked. His eagerness made her tense.

“Why would I do that?”

Sensing there was a longer conversation to be had there, Angharad sat down on the slabs, motioning the war boy to do the same. He drew his breath audibly but followed the order, if tentatively. There were still two arms lengths between them. Knowing that war boys had little sense of personal space it was likely a gesture of meekness.

“Gotta do it, he kicked at the Sister and didn't listen when she told him stuff. Saw it all. Gotta be punished for that.”

The war boy opened his mouth again as if to say something else but snapped it close, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

“Is there something else you want to tell me?”

But the boy shook his head and refused to say another word. Angharad sighed.

“Look, … what's your name?”

“Vectis.”

“Vectis. If you've seen everything you know Slit was scared, do you?”

This was unknown conversational territory for the war boy. He squirmed and looked ready to bolt, but gave a questioning nod.

“He kicked at her.” he repeated uncertainly.

“And if someone were to hurt you, wouldn't you defend yourself?”

“I'd never disrespect a Sister!” The boy looked so offended Angharad almost smiled.

“I know you wouldn't. But no one's punishing Slit for being scared.”

Vectis mulled this over. He chewed the stump of his finger thoughtfully. The urge to stop him from his casual self-mutilation was strong.

“Why's he allowed fear?” was the result of his thought process.

“Everyone is. You are, too.”

Another pause filled with heavy contemplation. Then, almost timidly, Vectis said: “I think Slit went to the feeding pit.”

Whatever had earned her this additional piece of information, Angharad was grateful for it.

“Where is that?”

And just like that the war boy was all eagerness. “I can show you.” he offered, up on his feet and already halfway through the cave, disproportionately happy to be useful. Angharad followed at a slower pace.

 

 

The pit was nothing like Slit remembered. Before it had been the bottom of an abandoned water shaft, a place for war boys to fight for the food they were thrown. The strongest boys claimed enough to feed the younger ones, who used to sit on the side, watching the fight they were not yet allowed to join.

Slit'd been so excited to be allowed in the pit with the other ones, when he turned old enough. Some snatched bits of morsel or mushrooms and sought hiding places to eat them in peace, others swallowed them right in the pit. That was the tactic Slit employed, that first feeding day. Had grinned at the war boy as he stole a bite of bread from under his nose. Hadn't counted on the boy having a knife and cutting it out of his mouth. After he helped him staple the wounds together, though, and shared his food under the condition Slit would become his lancer once he got his own car. Slit, never thinking that scrawny joke of a war boy could actually earn a vehicle for himself, agreed all too ready.

There were tables now, low enough to kneel at them. Some boys did, chatting with each other, eating the food available without fighting for it. There was so much of it. He picked a group of war boys at random and sat between them without question or greeting. The shuffled around to accommodate him.

“Lots of meat.” Slit mentioned and grabbed something that looked vaguely like lizard, anticipating an attack any second. None came.

“Animals come to the farms, try to eat the stuff we planted.” said one war boy with mud-dirty hands and face. “Gotta kill 'em anyway.”

Chewing thoughtfully on the tail of the lizard, Slit listened to the conversation unfolding before him.

“ _We_ planted, Spotface. _You_ chased whatever halfway 'cross the Citadel.”  
“It was a chicken, you mediocre smeghead. And I'd have gotten it, too, if Gusset hadn't ran me over.”

“There were no chickens and we had to do your portion of the farm.”

In a fit of rage Spotface climbed over the table and held the other war boy in a headlock. He fought against his grip and knocked over a bowl of indecipherable food items in the process.

“There was a chicken! Say it.”

“No chicken!”

Spotface threw the other boy to the ground and straddled him.

“Say there was a chicken or I'mma punch your ugly face blue.”

“Never!”

A couple of war boys on other tables laughed as Spotface took his opponents fists in his own and started hitting him with them. Slit joined in with the laughter and took the opportunity to grab some more food.

Some war pups came closer to watch the brawl and one of them crawled into Slit's lap to get a better view. Having to sit so awkwardly at the table it required no little amount of shuffling on both sides until the pup was comfortably seated.

“There was no chicken.” the pup confined in him as they returned to watch. “I saw 'im. There was a paper an' he thought it was a chicken.” He opened his mouth demanding to be fed. Slit gave him some scraps. While the pup munched happily, Spotface and the other war boy ended their argument in a truce in favour of more food.

Slit had no clue what a chicken was or even what war boys did on the farms, that used to be cultivated by the Wretched, but both volume and intensity of the argument were familiar enough to let him forget about its contents.

With one hand he scratched the pup behind the ears, noting with distaste that someone hadn't shaved him properly. Little patches of hair, invisible through the paint, pricked his fingers. He'd take the pup after they were done eating and do it properly. And then he'd swing by the garages and see how he could make himself useful. There were bound to be rigs in need of repair and eventually they ought to put together a raiding party and see about retrieving the pieces at the canyon. Maybe even get Gas Town and Bullet Farm under their control. With the number of war boys who'd died with Immortan Joe, there'd be no lack of opportunities for Slit. Within twenty days he'd have his own rig.

An excited crescendo in the conversation around the table tore Slit from his musings.

“Where'd you get that from?”

“Found it out raiding, hundreds of days ago.”  
“'s shine.”

Slit and the pup both craned their necks to get a better look at whatever the war boy held. Something glittered, but whatever it was, he was protective of it, curling his fingers around it so only a few boys at a time could see it. Despite their envy none tried to take it from him. Finally the war boy showed the thing to Slit and the pup. It was a shard of glass, which by itself wouldn't have impressed Slit in the least. But the pup in his lap voiced his thoughts.

“It's green. Like plants.”

Some of the war boys, among them Spotface and the chicken-sceptic, started arguing about whether or not glass grew on shrubs. The general consensus, after a few minutes of heated and physical discussion, seemed to be that only very special kinds of glass did.

“What're you gonna do with it?” asked one war boy.

“Gonna give it to the Sister Dag.”

The statement was met with general approval.

“What are you tradin' it for?” Slit asked, frowning. Glass, shine or not, could be crafted into hidden shivs and all other kinds of things. He could get a months ration of water for it.

“Nuthin'. Gonna give it as a pre-sent.” The boy pronounced the word delicately. “It means giving something without wanting something else back. The Sisters taught us.”

Some of the boys nodded in confirmation.

“They told you to give them things for nothing?” Slit asked, suddenly feeling like a stranger intruding on those war boys.

“No, not them. They said we should give each other stuff if we thought someone was shine. Sister Cheedo said it's important that people know when someone thinks that about them.”

Another war boy chimed in: “They never said we can give them presents. Are we even allowed?”

The boy with the glass shard frowned at him.

“You're full of shit. Of course we can give them things. 's like with the Immortan. We gave him stuff all the time.” he said but didn't sound entirely convinced.

“They're breeders!” Slit shouted and stood up, knocking the pup off who fled his anger. Some of the war boys rose to their feet in challenge.

“We're not supposed to call 'em that.” one said, and another: “They're not things.”

“They're filth, that's what they are! Look at yourselves! They make you soft, tell you to give up what you own for nothing. You should be out raiding Gas Town, instead you're, you're in here chasing chickens. The Immortan would spit at ya!”  
Slit breathed heavily but at least some of the war boys looked at each other with shame.

“Immortan's dead.” Spotface mumbled. “The Sisters … they …” He slowed and came to a halt, eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind Slit. None of the war boys paid them any attention anymore, but Slit was too revved up to notice.  
“What? The Sisters what? What did they do? Make ya addicted to water? Touch you soft, yeah? They hate ya! They wanna stop war boys from going to Valhalla as revenge! _What are you staring at?_ ”

He spun around and came face to face with Splendid. The other war boys bowed and retreated until a circle of space formed around her, but Slit couldn't move. He started sweating, looking around for help that would never come. His feet were too heavy to move. She hadn't forgotten about him after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> War boys would totally pick up the ringing toy phones of the pups. But sadly, this being a post-apocalyptic crapsack world, there are no phones, real other otherwise, and thus we are forever denied the glory of war boys talking to invisible people over a pretend phone.  
> Also I feel bad for Cheedo, but since I have more interaction between her and Slit planned, my guilty conscience is sort of appeased.


	12. Rift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More poor, tortured Slit. There's no such thing as enough of that.

“You seem to be feeling better.” was the first thing Angharad said after she dragged Slit to a place of semi-privacy. It felt hard not blaming Slit for what happened. Cheedo hadn't been the victim in this but her tears stoked something inside her that hadn't surfaced since the last time she took the knife to her own face. Seeing him rave against the Sisters to the other war boys was just the last drop. A war pup had followed them but Slit swatted him over the head and he ran off. He didn't justify himself, but then again, she hadn't asked him a direct question. Instead he turned his head away and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like Cheedo in a bad mood. Sullen and a bit like he feared she'd take his favourite toy away.

Now she was down here and finding Slit upright and not trapped in some horrible panic attack, she didn't know what to do with herself. Talking out emotionally challenging situations wasn't really a war boy's forte.

Thus what should have been a comforting conversation induced by a lingering sense of sympathy for the boy she brought home like a stray animal, stretched into awkward silence. Sometime into their stare-off - made significantly less impressive by the fact that neither held eye contact - Slit started fidgeting with the hem of his pants. It was such an odd sight from the boy she first met shouting obscenities at her while all but frothing at the mouth, it prompted her to break the silence.

“Well, no sense in me being here if everything's okay.” Angharad said and turned around to leave, glad Slit couldn't see her angry blush. What a waste of time this had been. Her leg throbbed and made her long for another of the Dag's salves.

“I traitored you.”

She whipped around, not expecting Slit to speak up.

“What?”

Angharad saw fright pass over his face and ignored it.

“I traitored you.” he repeated more firmly. “What'cha gonna do about it?”

The Sisters waited up on the Citadel for her to return, to celebrate them being together again. Any other day, she told herself, she would have tried to delve into this boy's mind. Just not today, when she'd just found her Sisters again.

“Nothing.”

“Why?” he persisted. It got on her nerves. The chatter in the next room died down. Probably half the Citadel eavesdropped on their conversation.

“Frankly? You're not worth the trouble.” Slit looked as if he'd been slapped. Guilt creeped up in Angharad but she pushed the sentiment away.

“You stabbed me in the back first chance you got and the only thing that's surprising about that is that I was actually surprised. It's what you war boys do, isn't it?”

“No!” Slit protested. “We're loyal, we-”

“You're _not_ loyal and certainly not to me!” she screamed, loud enough to make several other war boys pop their heads out of the feeding pit. They looked concerned, even more so when they saw a Wife shouting in anger at one of their own. Worse was Slit. The fright she'd seen before had returned to stay. He backed against the wall, turning half away to make himself a smaller target. If it came to it, she wasn't sure if he'd fight her. She had half a mind to find out. “All you care about is killing and dying, you're not even really human. There's nothing there.” She punched his chest in emphasis. “You have no heart, no feelings beyond rage. I never wanted to see any of you again but the Green Place is gone and this is the only place we've got, the others won't leave, for some forsaken reason they feel responsible for you, think we should take care of you and let you suckle on our fucking tits! My own Sisters think you're a bunch of children, but all you really are are crazed animals who'll bite the hand that feeds them. We should have thrown you all out to the Wretched because you don't deserve any of this!”

Angharad didn't need to see Slit's face to know she'd gone too far. None of the war boys moved. They all just stood there. Silent. Her anger evaporated like guzzolene and the guilt she'd felt punched her in the gut.

“I didn't mean …” she started but broke off. That was the problem, wasn't it? She meant every word and maybe the war boys were barely caricatures of human beings but they could tell honesty from lie. Right now they'd been told an unkind fact. And it would be true to them, not just a heated opinion spoken without thought. To them she was still Immortan Joe's Wife. His word was truth. And so was hers.  
One of the war pups started crying. She turned and fled.

 

 

None of the boys would talk to Slit. All they knew was that somehow he'd sparked the ire of the chromest Wife and now they avoided him where they could. If she'd done this on purpose to punish him after all, it was a shine move, he gave her that. Frustrating beyond compare, but it wouldn't be punishment if it was nice. He clung to that as he wandered the Citadel in search of work, because a Splendid who was smarter than he'd given her credit for was better than a Splendid who didn't care enough to be angry with him.

The garages at least were busy as ever. Not even losing most of their rigs during the chase had inhibited the ability of war boy's to make as much noise as humanly possible while hammering, screwing and welding together tributes to V8. War pups ran around with tools to deliver to one station or another. On the hoods and under them lay war boys slowly baking under their paint in the ever-persistent heat. On the walls hung scribbled blueprints of car parts and crudely drawn instructions. Every war boy could do the repairs from memory but now some of the more complicated diagrams had been torn down and laid out between the war boys to peek at as they struggled to rebuild their rigs from the ground up. The coal and engine grease with which they were drawn had faded. It'd been some time since Immortan Joe's vehicles got that badly damaged. No lack for activity here, at least. But the moment Slit approached the closest group of war boys they ceased talking and looked at him with scorn.

“Need some extra hands?” Slit asked knowing the answer even as he did. As predicted the war boys scoffed at him.

“Shove off.”

“Yeah, go suck on a tailpipe.”

They turned back to their work, deliberately ignoring them. Over their heads Slit caught the eye of another war boy who'd watched them and turned away before Slit got any ideas of approaching.

“Whatever. Didn't wanna work on your mediocre shit anyway.” he said and, after trying the same on all of the groups with as much success, left the garages. A trail of “Mediocre! Mediocre Slit!” followed him all the way down to the forges.

He hadn't much luck there, either, even though these boys were at least marginally more sympathetic to his plight.

“Fuck off, Slit.” Imperator Furnus said as he entered. He billowed the fires, hot enough to bend the broken metal into place and dry his body paint to the point where it cracked with every twist of his muscles.

“But …”  
“Seriously, Slit. Fuck off. Can't have the Wives blowing this place to Valhalla just because you trouble-making lizard hang around.”

“They won't.” Slit insisted. “Please, just lemme work. You know I'm stronger than everyone else you've got.” It was true. The few war boys who survived the chase worked up in the garages or around the farms. Without the numbers the forgemaster had to fall back to older war pups and sickly boys.

“Look, you can't work here. The Dag's down here almost every day going on and on about some crazy dreg. The basins for the aqua cola are wrong she tells me and I say what's wrong about them, they're hollow inside and don't leak, but that's not enough for a Wife. Never is, but I don't need you here making it worse. Reminds me, try it down at the water plants, they'll be desperate enough to take even your mediocre ass.”

Fuck the water plants Slit was tempted to say. Only pups and Wretched worked down there, pumping up the water from the earth day in and out. But at this point he had few options left, without raiding and working on cars.

“Hey, Slit.” Furnus called as he was on his way to leave, hopefully reconsidering his stance on No-Slit-allowed rule. He didn't, however as the only thing he asked was: “You don't happen to know what 'lead poisoning' is, do ya?”

Slit didn't so she shrugged and left the Imperator to his work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angharad's feelings about Slit are complicated. I can't imagine all Wives are super thrilled to live (yet again) among a horde of war boys, when what they expected to come off their escape was an all-female commune. Some don't mind as much as others (ie Capable), others like Angharad mind a lot more. 
> 
> So for a while this will be the last chapter of Angharad and Slit interacting with each other. You'll still get plenty of both, and there is some lovely stuff I've planned with Cheedo, Furiosa and Capable, but for now those two lovebirds need to solve their own issues.


	13. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the fucking huge delay. I don't even have an excuse, I was just lazy as fuck. But here it is, the next chapter, and I'm working on the next as I write this.

The war boys followed Angharad into her dreams. Again throning on the lancer's perch, Slit at her back, the way the muscles in his shoulders shifted against her bare skin telling her everytime he threw a lance. There was shouting, the noise maddening, punching her ears like physical violence. Slit's laughter strangely gentle, like Capable's soft chuckles at Toast's rude jokes she learned from outside. It drowned out the terrible noise.

“Good aim, Splendid.” he said turned around to wrap his arms around her torso. Rested his chin on her shoulder and watched with pride as she lanced a war boy right through the heart. He cried for Valhalla as the explosion tore him apart. She wanted to avert her eyes, pleading for the car to stop, but already there was another lance in her hand and she threw it without thinking.

“You're one of us now.” Slit said no longer with his own voice. It was the Immortan's, the same nausea-inducing whisper he'd used when sweet-talking her. She swallowed bile as she heard it complimenting her, praising her for being such a good Wife.

“I'll never be one of you.”

But where Slit's Immortan-voice rose over all the commotion and quieted it to a whisper, it roared against her own protest.

“Don't be a little sillyhead. You are alone. And there are so many of us. We're everywhere.”

War boys crowded onto the car, hands grabbing her, tearing at her clothes, rubbing off their damned paint on her until she was as white as them.

“You'll never get rid of me.” said the Immortan. The convulsions of his fat stuck to her back, the edges of his breathing mask dug into her neck in his approximation of a kiss.

“The others, they'll …” But she broke off because there was Capable driving Immortan Joe's own rig, with a war boy in her lap, pleasuring her with his tongue.  
“They'll save you? Look at them, they love the war boys. Always have. They never were on your side. And you, my dear dear Splendid, have something that belongs to me.”  
A knife dug into her stomach and Angharad screamed, screamed as the Immortan dug the baby out of her belly. The mask was gone as he once again descended onto her neck, metal staples searing her skin off.

“I named him Sump and he is _mine_.” Slit hissed and pushed her. She fell, tried to cling on, slipped and saw only wheels.

 

Angharad shot up, scream stuck in her throat. Her room was dark. Silent. She was alone. Her bed, cobbled together from metal frames not good enough to be used on cars anymore, stood solitary in the corner of the room, the rest of which had been hastily furnished with a salvaged car seat and a banged up drum from the Doof Wagon serving as a makeshift table. Piled up in a corner were some of her favourite things from the vault, that she'd been brought in a hurry and waited to be stowed away properly. Sleep was out of the question, so she might as well see about putting her things away. Angharad got up, shivering as her toes made contact with the cold stone floor. The only sound was her own breathing and the slapping of her bare feet.

Deep in the desert, between losing Miss Giddy and finding Slit, she'd slept alone, shivering with cold and pain and wishing nothing more than to go home. The thoughts of her Sisters had kept her sane and with company good enough to pass the distance. Here, in the middle of the Citadel, with the Sisters having rooms just down the hallway, having returned home at last, she felt more lonely than ever. As if this room was her whole world, emptier of life than the Vault had ever been. Angharad recognised these thoughts as old friends. Midnight sorrows the Dag called them.

“They're not helpful, stop clinging to them.” Angharad whispered to herself as she crossed the room, imagining in her head a giant word burger squashing the dark ideas like bugs. It worked, as long as she concentrated on something different immediately and so she started rifling through her stack of things at random.

They couldn't take anything with them on their escape and some trinkets Angharad dearly missed. There the word burgers with images of trees and other plants in them, dozens and dozens of little trees drawn on the edges by Wives that'd come and gone long before Angharad. She dragged a pillow to the ground and sat down, pulling out treasure after treasure. She didn't want to think about the dream, not now, not in the dead of night without any company. Tomorrow she'd ask the others to stay with her while she worked through it. To keep her from slipping away into places no one could follow. For now she pulled out item after item, mostly word burgers but other treasures, too. A prism from the chandelier that Toast and Capable had knocked off one day while play fighting and, terrified of Joe's reaction tried to hide until Angharad took it from them, taking all responsibility for the accident. Joe had never even noticed one of the prisms missing and she'd gone to carrying it with her whenever he wasn't around. There was the sheet music the Dag had played to, even though none of them could decipher their meaning. She said they spoke to her and mostly the tunes she played on the piano had sounded nice. Below those a stack of paintings Angharad had done herself, trying to imagine a world outside. Mostly vague shades of green, some of the scenery from the vault.

Until Toast had come. When they dragged her in, the oldest Wife to ever arrive at the Citadel, she'd kicked and screamed words the Wives later begged her to teach them, and she raged at the closed door like a lunatic. They called her the Knowing because she alone of all the Wives knew what life was like outside and could remember it well enough even after the years passed by. During the first days she'd cussed even at the other Wives, calling them names and hitting them when they tried to come near.

Leave me alone, she'd say, always those same words until after Joe took the Dag for a night and when she returned, staring into nothing, midnight sorrows just waiting to ambush her, Toast had abandoned her solitary wrath and talked to the Dag, all night of all the nice things they had outside. Even as she cried with homesickness she didn't stop, though she dared with silent glares for any of them to mock her for her tears. None of them thought of it, and so Toast first became a Wife and then a Sister. When she saw Angharad's rough drawings of the outside she tried to paint her memories herself, but she'd never had the patience for painting. As she, frustrated beyond measure threw a balled up piece of paper out of the vault to plummet as a white spot to the earth, Splendid sat her down next to her and painted while Toast retold every last detail she remembered. The outcome had been a painting of a town, shacks hammered together, leaning against each other more than they stood on their own. People with dust-covered feet and sunburnt skin bartering for goods. It wasn't green or full of water but it was real. The paper was crumpled and torn lightly at the edges from all the times she clung to it, paint smudged in some places when she cried because the town, half an hour's drive away was as distant as the other side of the vault door.

She cried now, midnight sorrows breaking down her walls at last. Nothing had changed. She and her Sisters were still at the Citadel, surrounded by boys, shadows of Immortan Joe who, it seemed, would never leave her alone.

“Splendid? I heard noises come from your room and … oh, Splendid.”

Capable was there, her red hair mixing with Angharad's blonde ones as she hugged her from behind, rubbing warmth into her arms.

“You should have called for us, we're right here.” she said, not expecting her to answer. Splendid didn't, but she entwined her fingers with Capables and held on, shivering with the stark contrast between where Capable's body kept her warm and the icy wind over the exposed parts. They had fled and risked their lives hoping to never again have those nights of deep sorrow, and yet here she was. Still in the same place, still haunted by Joe, knees hurting from resting on the ground so long, while her Sister hugged her tight and murmured and whispered nonsensical things the entire night.

 

Returning to a bright and busy world after a night like that was always surreal. Like those two didn't belong together and she was an unwelcome guest in both, kicked out of one house but stranger in the other. The Sisters hadn't had much more time than Angharad to familiarise themselves with life as leaders of the Citadel rather than its treasures, so they too had to feel the same estrangement from reality that she did. It sure didn't feel like it. Toast rode out with a handful of war boys on first light, patroling the borders and serving aqua cola to the outlying settlements. Furiosa was nowhere to be seen, which was not unusual, according to Capable, who took Angharad to the balcony overlooking the green farms to have breakfast.

“She's always busy keeping everything running.” she said. “The war boys know her and they provide most of the workforce. We're helping as best we can, but they don't really know how to approach us yet, so it falls to her.”

Angharad suspected duties were a convenient excuse for Furiosa to keep her distance. It was an unkind thought, especially towards a woman who saved them regardless of their motive.

When they reached the breakfast table, loaded with mashed potatoes and raw vegetables and conveniently located on a balcony overlooking the entire Citadel, Cheedo and the Dag were already there, heads stuck together and barely noticing them approaching. Angharad expected Nux to be there, too and was pleasantly surprised when he was not. No sooner had the relief made her relax did guilt bring it back. Nux was different from the other war boys. He was sweet and helpful and had done nothing to deserve her ire. Still she was glad to have at least a little longer with just the Sisters.

“You should come see our gardens.” Cheedo said after she finished her quiet conversation with the Dag. “We tore out some of that dreadful stuff Joe planted -”

“Poison.” the Dag supplied, lolled her head to the side and stuck her tongue out, the rendition of a man dying perfect if not for her macabre grin. Around her neck she wore a piece of strung up green glass that Angharad had never noticed before. Waters knew where she had found this little oddity.

“-Yes. We don't know what he used it for, bullets don't need poisoning, I think? But we're planting new seeds, from the Keeper's bag. It smells so nice, the dirt, and it's so soft under your fingers.”

Cheedo kept talking about the farms, describing in great detail the many seeds and roots they'd planted already and what they hoped would come of it. From the way she told it come harvest season they would have a cure for every ailment under the sun ready to be plucked from its stalks.

“Longshot says its like the Green Place used to be.” the Dag said dreamily, gazing fondly over the green.

“She's one of the Many Mothers who came back with us.” Cheedo said on Angharad's confused glance. “Only Longshot and Mel survived. The others died on our way here.”

They did something with their hands then, reaching out into thin air as if pulling some invisible string to their chests. It was such an odd gesture, something she expected from the Dag, but even Capable did it, reverence that must have come from the Many Mothers. The only other place they'd have gotten it were the War Boys and their culture was too crude for a gesture like this.

“You've got to meet them.” Capable said, breaking the mournful silence and returning to her meal as did Cheedo and the Dag. “Mel knows everything. She's been teaching us about medicine and mechanics. Longshot's always out with the scouting parties, she went out with Toast this morning.”

“She feels lonely among so many men and so little women.” the Dag said. Angharad wholeheartedly felt with that sentiment. The Vault and the Rig during their flight had been their own little world, cut off from all else. Now that the world was bigger it also seemed emptier.

“I'd love to meet them.” she said. If there was no real Green Place, there were still the stories.

 

She found Mel at Furiosa's, pouring over some Old World maps trying to cross-reference it with the new ones they'd made.

“The Citadel must be here.” she said, pointing to a cluster of sepia paint that looked to Angharad just like all the others.

“Can't be. We have to be further inland, closer to the Salt.”

“The Salt's not always been this big. It spreads, that's what I'm telling you.”

“Furiosa?”

They both looked up, torn from their work and staring at Angharad like she intruded. The moment passed quickly and they bid her to enter, marking the spot they had been brooding over to give their full attention to her.

“Feeling better?” Furiosa asked her, who nodded with a curt smile.

“Much better, thank you.”  
“Good, good.”

The stilted conversation sputtered to a halt, leaving both Furiosa and Angharad behind. They avoided eye contact and breathed a sigh of relief when Mel spoke up.

“Well, girl? What brings you here? You shouldn't be up and walking around so much.”

“I want to make myself useful. Cheedo mentioned you might need some help?”

“Ah, yes, of course. There's plenty of organising that needs doing, giving out water to the Wretched. Can't just throw it out by the handful. Furi's been helping me, but I could surely use another hand.”

“I'd love that.”

That settled Mel and Angharad left to the water plants after wishing Furiosa a good day. It might have been a trick of the eye, or perception coloured by opinion, but Angharad thought the woman was relieved when they both left.

 

They passed through the stone-hewn hallways of the Citadel, barely wide enough for the two of them, much less for the additional pack of war boys that came dashing through. At least there was no way of them surprising you, always shouting and running with no regard what they crashed into, be it walls or other war boys or occasionally the ground. Even with her banged up leg Angharad had to slow her pace to match Mel's, who hobbled determined but inhibited by old age.

“You and Furi don't get along so well, do you?” she said as they rounded a corner. Half a dozen war boys spared Angharad the need to answer immediately, as they barged through the corridor carrying car bumpers. She mulled over what to say. The Many Mothers knew Furiosa from before. To them she was the lost daughter, just as much a victim as the Sisters were. Her opinions, unfounded and based on the past not evidence of the present, would alienate the Vuvalini and thus her only connection to the Green Place. Angharad opted for a half-truth.

“When I first met her she was just a war boy. It's hard seeing past that, even when you know better.”

Mel laughed at that, sounding six thousand days younger.

“Oh my, we could have used you when we negotiated for space at the borderlands. A right diplomat are you.”

Angharad had heard the word before but didn't know its meaning. She shrugged and smiled when Mel stood on her toes to pat her head.

“It's alright, dear. Our Furiosa is all grown up now, and her teachers were men. It is not surprising that she would think like them sometimes. All she had left of the Many Mothers were sorrow and homesickness. Bad soil to foster the value of a human life.”

Angharad thought of Slit, full of hate for everything including himself. But Mel's words were mirrored closer.

“I've got bad soil, too. I wish there were just the seven of us, us Sisters and the Many Mothers and Furiosa. I wish the war boys weren't here. That the Green Place still existed.”

“Look around you, girl. You're standing in the middle of it.”

But all Angharad saw was Joe's brand in the war boy's necks and shining behind their eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angharad has lots of things to work through. She's got just as much trouble fitting in as Slit, only she's got the advantage of having a supportive net of people around her. 
> 
> I should also probably update the summary, seeing as Angharad stopped journeying like a couple of chapters ago.


	14. Water

Work at the water plants sucked. It sucked so bad Slit was tempted to throw himself into the vats at least once per shift.

Pumping up water from deep below all day long lost its appeal after about five seconds. Pushing the levers down, hearing the water gush down the pipes, letting the levers come back up again until the stream of water had returned to a trickle and doing it all over again drove Slit insane as surely as the steady drip drip drip of water droplets from the ceiling falling on his head did.

The most demanding moments of the work were when one of the war pups tried to unclog a jammed pipe and had to be fished out of the vats because they never learned just how deep they were. With three war pups to a vat and all kinds of residue that got swept up into the pipes that happened about once every three days. It was wet, dark and miserable, which were incidentally the same three adjectives best used to describe Slit at the time.

If that wasn't enough - and surely it had to be enough, what kind of punishment was this - surrounded by over a dozen containers filled to the brim with cold, clear water Slit resisted addiction for all but a week. Most down here were addicted, guzzling down enough aqua cola to make their stomachs gurgle.

The only ray of light was that there wasn't much chatter about the Wives. Up in the feeding pit all the war boys ever talked about were the Wives. How chrome they were, knowing everything, doing everything the Immortan did but _better_. When the boys found out they wore their gifts around their necks it was the talk of the day. It was sickening. They fought less, too and the few times he'd tried to start a fight to find a footing in one of the groups, they'd outright avoided him. As if _he_ was the crazy one.

Slit slammed the lever down, almost sending the war pup 'helping' him flying. A high-pitched squeak alerted to the fact of a tiny pup hanging onto the lever and looking scandalised. Feeling vaguely guilty but also having to suppress a smile, Slit let him down carefully and patted his head as an apology. Making the pup smile again was easy. He simply acted as if he had a hard time with the pumps until the pup threw his weight in, proud to be strong enough to be useful.

Anyway, stupid Wives being on everyone's minds these days. They tried to be like the Immortan, even though they pretended to hate him. The Gates were closed, dying chrome discouraged, but the War Boys acted as if they hardly cared! Slit didn't notice as he began working faster, not even as the pup stepped back to avoid getting hit by the business end of the pump. He could have had his own rig. Instead he was down here, being mediocre. He pushed the lever down with a growl, at the same time the pup said “the vat's full ...”

Water drenched Slit's pants. He looked down at himself as if water attacking him was just the latest in a great series of personal injuries. He dripped with clear cold aqua cola that seemed less like a blessing and more like a nuisance. Great. Just what he needed. His pants would stick to his skin the entire day. Hanging them outside to dry was only an option if he wanted to attract a bunch of water-addicted war boys to suck every bit of moisture out of them. He'd do without that, thank you. Instead Slit told the pup to let the vat run half empty before taking up work again and stripped off his pants to hang them in a secluded nook. Even the air was wet at the plants but he took them taking days to dry over having them stolen. Getting a new pair with the Wives in charge could only end in disaster. They'd probably make him wear those bright scarves instead. Slit shuddered at the thought but got mercifully released from that particular train of thought by the war pup giggling.

“What?” he growled, though not unfriendly.

“You've got really weird bumps there.” the pup said, pointing at his legs. Slit looked down. They didn't look weirder than usual.

“Oh, do I now? 's not nice pointing at a half-life's bumps.” he said and grinned. The war pup, realising what was about to come, laughed and tried to run away but Slit pounced and knocked him to the ground in a playfight. The pup shrieked and batted at Slit's arms, who in true War Boy fashion relentlessly subjugated his enemy. In this case through means of merciless tickling. They both laughed, squirming and in Slit's case dodging the fruitless attempts of the pup to get him away.

The pup finally landed a lucky hit and Slit rolled over, clutching the stomach he'd got kneed in as if in greatest agony. Triumphant over a much bigger foe the war pup stood up and signed the V8 above his head, while Slit dramatically died, mumbling 'witness … me …' under his breath, as fit for someone slain by a superior force.

That was the scene Cheedo saw when she entered. Slit, still pantless, writhing on the wet ground, surrounded by pups and towered by another who murmured about honouring someone by his deeds.

“Oh my! You're not, you're … I can come back later.” she stammered, deep red and covering her eyes with her hands.

“What? Why?” Slit asked, confused. It wasn't as if she interrupted their work (which was so dull it didn't mind interrupting anyway).

“You can play with us!” the pup said tugging at Cheedo's scarf and animating her to catch him.

“I, uh, no, I don't think I should, um … please, Slit, can't you put on some pants?”

“They're wet.” Slit complained, not fancying shimmying into wet pants for whatever purpose Cheedo needed him to wear them.

“Oh, uh, then, I'll just, uh … I'll be back later.”

Watching Cheedo leave with equal amounts of confusion, Slit and the war pup got back to refill the now empty vat, gurgling for lack of water to pump through the pipes up the Citadel. Bad enough a Wife had found them fooling around, best not to be idle should she really return.

Cheedo did come back, with a clean and dry pair of pants dangling from her outstretched hand, her eyes firmly fixed on a point somewhere at the far end of the plants.

“What do you want for them?” Slit asked cautiously, not knowing whether dry pants were worth the exorbitant price they usually cost. From water rations to manual labour she could demand anything. Could anyway on account of her place in the food chain, but still. Best not to indebt himself.

“Nothing, just take them.”

Slit and the pup shared a brief glance.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, really.”  
Slit took the pants and put them on, noting the lack of extra belts and pockets that he'd come to attach to his original pair over the years. The fabric was so firm he got the impression they were never worn before. Even his own had been salvaged from a dead war boy.

“I can give you the old ones …” he offered reluctantly, already missing some of the trinkets he'd filled his pockets with. What use a Wife had of some shivs, shiny stones he found lying around or assortments of string and rolled up wraps of fabric that he used for making lances, he had no idea. Cheedo only looked at him when she was sure he was as fully clothed as any war boy and breathed an insulting sigh of relief. He knew he couldn't match a full-life in terms of looks, but she didn't have to be that obvious about it. The Immortan always told them how amazing they looked.

“No need. It's fine. Really. Wouldn't want everyone seeing you buck naked.”

She smiled and that was just about it. Now she _mocked_ him for his appearance. If she said _one word_ about his lumps, he'd …

“I just, uh, wanted to check in to see if you were okay?”

He deflated a bit, muttering a half-assed 'Fine'. Rather than fighting a superior (who was, incidentally at least a head shorter than him), he went back to work. The war pup followed eagerly, even though he threw the odd glance to Cheedo. Well, she _was_ chrome, even if she thought Slit wasn't. Which was faulty judgment, but he'd already come to the conclusion that she wasn't the brightest spark plug in the engine.

“Oh. Good.”

He grunted and pretended having to fully concentrate on pushing a big lever up and down.

“It's just, the last time we talked -”  
“'s fine.”

“Okay. Okay … how do you like it down here? The work's not too hard, is it? You're still recovering.”  
“'m fine. 's mediocre. Boring.” he added at Cheedo's confused frown. Chrome full-life Wives didn't even know what mediocre meant. Splendid did, he thought, but couldn't remember how he knew that. But Splendid of course hated him for traitoring. Shiny Splendid who killed dozens of war boys without breaking a sweat. Who took the Immortan's gifts and threw them away because they did not please her.

“Huh, it must be. I'll, um, see if I can do anything about that.” Cheedo said but Slit barely heard her. He wondered if things had gone different if he hadn't taken her to Gas Town, if he'd be with her still. At some point Cheedo must have left because he didn't remember seeing her when he left for the bunks later, thoughts still whirring around Splendid and his own sorry existence. Nux called for him as he passed him and his red-haired breeder in the hall, but he ignored him and subsequently all other war boys. Nux had his own rig and drove with Furiosa almost every day. And if he didn't drive he spent his time high above with the Wives. _His_ Wife liked him, even though he was nothing but a useless mediocre half-life. While Splendid …

“Probably thinks I'm ugly, too.” he muttered to himself and kicked his bunk for good measure. So busy pitying himself Slit didn't notice the bag was gone until he pulled back the blanket to preferably crawl under and die. He stared at the spot where it should be. A hole shaped in the form of a rough-woven bag bulging with its contents. It had been there when he left for work this morning, he'd made sure to hide it well. It was _his_ , all of the stuff in it he owned that was too big to put in pockets. Some mediocre shithead _stole_ it. It was the last fume that made the explosion. Twenty three days of slaving away at the water plants, twenty three days of seeing Nux prance about the place as if he was the new Immortan, the Wives hating him or thinking he was mediocre, the dream of his own rig so far away it might as well be someone else's and _now someone stole his stuff_.

He shot up to the bunk over him, finding a war boy putting together bullets from spare parts. He grabbed him by the throat and bashed his head against the bed. The crack he half hoped for failed to happen but it was still satisfying hearing the boy's pained grunt.

“ _Where is it?_ ”

“Dunno what you're talking about-”

“Don't fuck with me. Where's my stuff?”

He hammered down onto the boys head with his fist, once, twice, three times until he drove the message home.

“Don't know, don't know! I'm telling the truth! Some of the others took it!”  
“Who?”  
“Dunno!”

“Don't lie to me!”

Slit pulled out his shiv from his arm guard, pressing it against the boys throat and nicking it just a little.

“Spotface and Plaga! It was them, they took it!”

“Where are they now?”

The war boy told him even though he'd probably been implored with the same violence not to. Slit was the more immediate threat. He set off to find the thieves, barely resisting the urge of cutting that little shitheads throat for sitting by and doing nothing.

He found them exactly where the war boys said they'd be, still fighting over Slit's possessions. It hadn't been much. Mostly stuff to make his lances with, guzzolene, spare magazines, that sort of thing. From the looks of it they'd traded a fair portion of it off to other war boys already.

Spotface saw him first. He paled and dropped the wrench with Slit's name carved into it. Nux, who could write a little, had given that to him on the day they made repair team.

“Shit, Slit. We didn't, we …”

“We just looked after your stuff, some rusthead tried to steal it.” Plaga threw in, hastily shoving things back into the bag.

Slit didn't waste words, when knives did the job just as well. Not when that bastard wore Splendid's jacket. _His_ jacket that Splendid gave to him only! The boys put up a decent fight, but Slit was stronger and faster and much, much angrier. He tore down the jacket from Spotface's shoulders, kept Plaga at bay with a well placed kick in the lumps, and sliced a big fuck you right into the war boy's chest. He'd take his time with them …

 

The jacket had a few blood spots on (Spotface had received an additional minute's worth of attention for every single one) but was otherwise undamaged, Slit saw as he examined it carefully on his way back. No tears or cuts other than the ones already in when he got it. The leather soft under his fingers, the pockets without holes but stitches telling someone had mended those a long time ago. Two on the right, one on the left. It was much nicer than the one Nux had taken from his blood bag.

He heard someone shout for help and almost ran into Cheedo, followed by war boys and laden with medical supplies. She didn't so much as glance at him.

Fuck her. Fuck everything. He had most of his stuff back and he wouldn't miss the rest, not being a lancer anymore. That night he slept with the jacket balled up under his head, even though the angle of his head was strange enough to take him hours to fall asleep. From then on he wore it during the day, daring any war boy to challenge him for it. Displaying any possessions openly was dangerous at best, but most of the war boys heard about Spotface and Plaga, and Cheedo fretting over if they would make it, and kept their distance from Slit. People respected him again. But he couldn't help thinking of Splendid, with her soft words and softer touches, and what she'd think if she knew what he did to those boys.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has the headcanon of War Boys going commando any significance in terms of plot structure or characterisation? No. Do I think it's funny as hell, because I have the sense of humour of a thirteen year old? Absolutely.
> 
> Rating will go up within the next 2-3 chapters, so there's something to look forward to :D


	15. Cheedo

“I need to do this.”

“Why alone?”

Cheedo stopped in striding along the hallways as if possessed and allowed the Dag to catch up to her. The first subtle hints of her idea had come while searching through old books of the area and this morning, waking up and feeling unbelievably small in the busy organism that was the Citadel it had formed into a plan. A decision at least. Which was almost as good.

The Dag took one look into her eyes and accepted. She took Cheedo in her arms right where they stood, not caring if anyone walked by. They didn't need to watch out anymore, but still it felt strange. Few people really understood the Dag. Most called her crazy and left it at that, not bothering to acknowledge the deep affection she held for every living thing and especially Cheedo. She used to make up songs about imagined goddesses that came to deliver them from Joe and still did these days when the night terrors shook her awake. Certain the shadows in the door were the convulsing frame of Immortan Joe, to do to her what had the others, even brave dauntless Angharad, trembling.

The Dag's hands softly carded through her hair, leaving behind a smell of earth and sweet incense.

“I don't want to rely on you always.” Cheedo said but found the explanation unsatisfactory. The Dag didn't let on if she was offended but continued to hold her, blind and deaf to anything outside their own personal world. “I mean, I want to. But I don't want to _have_ to … you know?.”

“You want strength so you can make the choice for yourself.” The Dag said, the harmony in her words like a song.

“If you or one of the other Sisters is with me, I'll never know if I could have done it myself.”

There was nothing harder than being separated from each other and part of Cheedo felt horrible for doing this to the woman who meant most to her. Another part knew this journey, this pilgrimage of sorts, was necessary if she ever wanted to become more than a child.

The Dag understood this, likely better than Cheedo herself did, and she only hugged Cheedo tighter, before letting go and looking at her with her deep solemn eyes.

“You are fierce like Funmilayo.” she said, referencing their favourite made-up heroine. The name they'd found in a badly mangled book and found its ring so pleasant and far away from everything to do with Joe they filled their imaginary world with her adventures.

 

Unfortunately, Furiosa was less understanding about Cheedo's plans.

“You want to _what_?”

“There is a medical centre just a few days drive from here that I found out about from a book. I think if we go there we can find a way to make medication ourselves. Like pills that take pain or fever away or even heal sicknesses.”

Furiosa dragged her hand through her cropped hair.

“Alone? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

“I won't be alone. I'll take some of the war boys with me.”

Furiosa's face indicated that she didn't think of that option being much safer. The Dag giggled at her scrunched nose but came to aid Cheedo's cause.

“The boys trust her healing hands.”

That much was true. Out of the Sisters Cheedo was closest to the war boys, even more so than Capable and Toast who both narrowed their affections to smaller groups.

“All right, so maybe they won't be any danger to you, but Cheedo, there's a reason we never went this far out. We have no idea what's out there.”

“Then it's time we find out, isn't it?”

There was no dissuading Cheedo from her path and eventually Furiosa gave in, if only to escape the vague but persistent impression of being attacked by something small and fluffly. The trip would cost an insane amount of resources, in both water, guzzolene and manpower, but even Furiosa had to concede the benefits of manufacturing drugs were worth the price.

“Fine. Have Angharad help you with putting together a supply list and think of which war boys you want to take with. No more than three, and one of them needs to be a black-thumb, in case the car breaks down on the way. You'll also need a car, ask Nux about that.”

 

A black-thumb was easily found. Plaga barely shut up about his work at the garages, even and especially when he was supposed to lie still and recover. He used to spend his days fleeing the infirmary and tinkering with his rig, only to return to tell Spotface all about the progress he made.

“Gotta get off your lazy ass. Been doing so much work at our rig, she's so gorgeous, you gotta see her.”

He still thought Cheedo didn't know about his continued forays, which made what she was about to do much more satisfactory.

“And how exactly would you have worked on that car of yours if you'd been doing as I told you and were here all day?”Cheedo asked as she entered, causing Plaga to yelp and sprint back to his own bed, futilely pretending he'd been lying in it the whole time.

She tried to keep her face straight to draw out the moment just a little longer but Plaga hid his face behind the blanket and peeked out from behind one corner, looking sheepish.

“'m sorry Sister Cheedo.” he said. “I went down just for a bit, I swear. And I was lying down almost the entire time.”

On his back under the car, Cheedo assumed. She checked on Spotface first, who'd remained quiet but ready to spring to his friend's defense if need be. The first time Plaga disappeared from his bed, he'd sworn up and down he was just out for a leak and, when it became apparent Cheedo didn't buy that story, made up increasingly unlikely situations ranging from getting lost to developing spontaneous human flight. In the end it had just been easier to pretend she didn't notice and send one of her assistants to keep an eye on her patient. In the few weeks since they arrived at the Citadel, Cheedo treated her fair share of war boys and knew that short of restraining them, there was no making them lie still for more than a few minutes at a time.

Spotface was bedridden on account of a broken leg and severe internal bleeding that took its toll on the already anemic boy. To speak of luck would be macabre, but at least Cheedo could rely on Plaga returning to the infirmary at least for the night.

“I know you want to get back to work as soon as possible, but we need you at your best.” she said while redressing the cuts on Spotface's torso. They were deep and would leave ugly scarring. This was an unfortunate case of wounds being even worse than they looked. She'd spend twelve hours stitching him back together and nine days worrying over whether or not the boy would ever recover. They still refused to tell her who did it, just told her something about war boys solving problems amongst themselves and deserving it. Seeing as Plaga still fought off infection almost twenty days after the incident she doubted it.

Plaga had the decency to look guilty, but he always did and the next day he was gone again to work on the sorry remains of the salvaged rigs whose previous owners had died during the chase.

“Just wanted to be useful.” he said and Spotface added: “We wanna ride out with the patrols soon. Gotta need the car ready for that.”

“You got to get yourselves ready for that first.” Cheedo chided, but her face softened at their remorseful faces. “There's no way you'll promise me not to go down to the garages anymore, is there?”

Not daring to look at her Plaga shook his head. War Boys took promises seriously. Their word was one of the few things that was theirs to give. She made him swallow his pills and the additional cup of water, the latter of which had taken much more persuasion in the beginning, and said: “See, I worry about you. If you faint or your stitches open you could get hurt. And then I wouldn't have anyone to take with me on my secret mission …”

The boys perked up.

“What secret mission?”  
“Where are you going?”

“We're really good, you gotta take us with.”  
“Can we come, please?”

“Calm down.”, Cheedo said laughing. “We're going north to an old world ruin.”

“Lots of stuff to take.” Spotface said reverently.

“How far north is that?” Plaga asked, all but jumping on the bed in excitement.

“A week's ride, if we're lucky.”  
“No one's ever gone that far north.”  
“Not even the Immortan.”

“Raider land he said.”

“There's nothing there he said.”

Maybe it had been a mistake telling the two about this endeavour. Now they were bount to be even more restless. If asked they'd probably get in a car right now. Even Spotface who could barely sit up.

They talked back and forth about the lands to the north and the few things they knew about it. Every couple months caravans came carrying trinkets they found or stole from the raiders, strange shapes and signs etched into stone and metal.

“Ace used to fight them.” Plaga said as if he just remembered it.  
“Yeah, he did. Told the pups all about the wars at the border, hundreds of war boys dying, but we won and the raiders never came again.”

They spoke about the deaths of their fellow war boys like it was a great occasion, worthy of celebration rather than grief. Cheedo used to mistake it for carelessness when really it was the opposite. It didn't mean she hated Joe any less for sending boys like Plaga and Spotface to their deaths. After Furiosa killed him she wanted to start forgetting about him and everything horrible he'd done to her and her Sisters. But with every boy treated because a self-inflicted scar got infected or as result of a foolish accident he'd gotten in because they still cared about the job more than their own lives, she despised him more.

“Sister Cheedo! Sister Cheedo!” A war pup ran up to her, panting and pointing the way he came. “Sister Cheedo …”, he wheezed. “the boys … got … hurt …” his attempts to explain devolved into garbled mess. She made out the words “bikes” and “jousting” but assumed to have misheard.

“Calm down, sweetie. Breathe.” The war pup obeyed with comical precision. He took deep exaggerated breaths and smiled proudly at Cheedo for following her instruction.

“Where are they?” she asked when he regained some measure of normal lung activity.

“Water yard.”

“Well done. Get yourself some water and rest and I'll go see to the boys. And you two.” she said towards Plaga and Spotface. “ _Rest_. I'll only take you with me to the north if you are completely recovered, understood?”  
“Yes, Sister.” they echoed in unison.

 

When Cheedo arrived at the yard supplies in tow, almost half the Citadel had gathered. There was laughter about which probably meant nobody was in immediate danger of dying, although with war boys one could never be too sure. She found Toast by two war boys who sat side by side on the ground bleeding, well, everywhere and smiling brightly.

“What happened?” she asked, quickly assessing the damage and getting to work cleaning the wounds of the first war boy. Or rather finding the actual wounds in the mess of blood, scrapes and bruises.

Toast explained.

Cheedo looked throughtfully at her own hands.

“They did what?”  
Toast repeated herself with a slightly more elaborate explanation.

Cheedo blinked and stared off into the middle distance.

“They did _what_?” she opted for again, simply because it seemed the most sensible question to ask.

“It was so much fun!” the war boy under her care said, squirming as she dabbed at his wounds with clear water.

“I won.” the other said, causing a brief but heated discussion about the rules of motorcycle jousting.

“I thought it would be a good idea.” Toast said helplessly. “Work off their energy in non-violent ways, you know?”

It was a sound idea, Cheedo supposed, in the same way that surfing on the currents of water running open in some places seemed like a good idea until the little known but in hindsight obvious fact came to light that war boys weren't good swimmers. In fact, they didn't swim at all. They barely floated.

“We went three rounds before one of the lances got stuck and well …”

Cheedo followed Toast's gaze to the sorry wreckage of what she assumed to have been motorcycles. From a certain angle they kind of looked like spiky metal clouds.

The two proud contestants got away with a few bruises, one broken wrist and bragging rights. Toast got away with a stern frown from Cheedo who reminded her that medical supplies were not, in fact, endless.

“I doubt there's another place in the world where you have to deal with these kinds of hijinks.” Angharad said as she approached. She knelt down next to Cheedo to help pack up her supplies.

“They always keep us on our toes.” Cheedo said, looking after the boys who followed Toast and demanded to know who'd looked shinier flying off the motorcycle at full speed.

“Hmm. Furiosa said you needed help with putting together supplies?”

“If you're not too busy …”

Between them they carried the supplies back inside the Citadel with ease. A gentle wind had come up doing wonderful things to their sweaty skin. During noon it was almost too hot to breathe and the nights were chill enough to warrant extra layers of clothing. It was only these few hours on the cusp of darkness that invited for a stroll. Angharad and Cheedo took their time, talking about the supplies she'd need on her journey.

Water, guzzolene and food were self-evident but there were other things Cheedo would never have thought of.

“Maps of the region and at least a compass. Mel's been talking about teaching us to use a sextant but I don't know if there's time enough for that …”  
“The war boys I want to come with me are still laid up in bed and I need some time to plan a route anyway. I can see if Mel thinks that's enough time.”

Angharad looked at her with an expression Cheedo couldn't decipher. Then she smiled.

“You've grown so confident, seedling.” she said, using the old petname Miss Giddy used to call them. Cheedo blushed, and stared at her feet.

“You just say that.”  
“No. You used to be so quiet all the time and now look at you, better than the Organic at his own craft.”

That much was true, even Cheedo had to admit that. Mel taught her a lot but the experience she gained in only this short time had done its part in making her feel more secure. It was her hope that this expedition would be the final step of finally making her equal to the others.

“Helping the war boys helps me. You know? It's like … I do something as simple as clean a scraped knee and they'll look at me like nobody's ever done that for them before. They'll drive themselves to exhaustion trying to please us and there's so much _hurt_ behind that it breaks my heart but it also … everytime one of them accepts kindness or trusts me a little more, it's like my own pain also gets better. The Dag used to say that holding me was like being held by something greater at the same time and I never understood, but I think I do now.”

Angharad said nothing and that told Cheedo all she needed to know. She tactfully kept quiet on their way through the infirmary, as war boys could be nosy and didn't need to overhear this particular conversation. Cheedo had comforted her share of pups (and more than one boy) who were convinced the Wives hated them after Angharad's breakdown at the feeding pit. She didn't blame her Sister, but she felt both her agony and that of the boys who'd lost everything and desperately wanted someone to care.

“I know you don't like them …” Cheedo said when they reached the halls that led to their individual bedrooms. They could hear laughter from Toast's room, which they generally used as a gathering point before heading off to sleep, but decided on the privacy of Cheedo's room first.

“It's not that I don't like them-” Angharad began but interrupted herself. “No, alright. I really don't like them. It's just … Cheedo, don't you wish we'd be at the Green Place instead of here?”

Cheedo thought about that while offering Angharad a seat and a cup of tea the Dag made every day. It calmed the nerves and a cup before bed helped with the night terrors. It also provided something to hold onto while talking about hard topics.

“I wish it still existed.” she conceded at last. “But now that I'm here, I don't know if I could go there, even if it did. The war boys and the Wretched need us. We can do good things here.”  
It was clearly not the answer Angharad hoped for. They always used to understand each other so well but right now Cheedo couldn't tell what went on in her Sister's head. The realisation frightened her.

“I thought I could finally stop looking over my shoulder everywhere I went.” Angharad whispered so softly Cheedo almost didn't hear. She doubted it was meant for her. “I don't want them to _die_ , not Nux, not even Slit even though he-” she stopped abruptly as if she wanted to say something else. The War Boys spoke of Slit being at fault for Angharad's anger and Cheedo wondered, not for the first time, what really happened in Gas Town. “Even Slit. But …” she huffed helplessly. “He's dangerous. They all are. And maybe they can learn to see us as more than valuable treasure or Imperators or whatever they think we are these days. But they'll always be men. And they're everywhere and I just … I just want to walk freely without someone's eyes following my every move. I'm … scared all the time because they could be anywhere. They don't even have to do anything, but I'm always on my guard, always looking for them. It's not their fault, I know that. I know they're not all Joe. If anything I trust Capable's judgment on Nux. And Slit … he named the baby, did I ever tell you?”

Cheedo shook her head mutely. She didn't want to break the flow of words Angharad was in. It was the first time since her return to the Citadel that she spoke from the heart.

“He did. I was angry and hurting and he didn't understand, of course he didn't, but he tried to help. That was his first instinct. To try and make things better. He didn't know why losing the baby was so bad. Why having it in the first place was even worse. But I said something about it not having a name and he just spouted their silly war boy names. Others would have tried to get away or would have stayed quiet. But he helped the best he could and I thought, I don't know, that I could trust him or at least try to trust him over time.”

“Angharad. Do you _like_ Slit?” Cheedo asked when nothing more seemed to come from her. Angharad shot her a look.

“I just said I don't like war boys, I don-”

“Not war boys in general. Slit. Do you like Slit?”

If anything, she seemed confused by that prospect. She stared down into her empty teacup with a frown that told Cheedo that if she did indeed liked Slit she at least never thought about it.

“He's not as dumb as he looks.” she ventured at last, as if tasting the idea. “Or acts. Nux will chew your ear off over some war boy thing and won't even notice if you've no idea what in blazes he's talking about. Slit knows we're different and he tried to talk around that. Still really dumb, but not as dumb as he could be.”

Cheedo giggled and Angharad smiled faintly. “I don't like him very much but … I worried about him. For a while. Of course then he had to go and-” Again that interruption, but Cheedo had figured it out.

“He betrayed you, didn't he? I thought the boys were just gossiping but they were right.”

Angharad nodded.

“Don't tell anyone please. He put me into that mess but he also helped me escape it. Doesn't make it any better, but he doesn't deserve punishment.”

It appeared to Cheedo that this might have been the first time Angharad really reflected on her feelings for the war boy. If the others hadn't talked about it Cheedo would never have guessed Slit had done her any wrong, but Angharad had always been good at pushing things down and acting as if she didn't care. Moreso, to act as if she liked the situation as it was. Out of all the Wives only Angharad had ever been able to convince Joe that she loved him and thus become his favourite wife. Through never showing what she really felt she'd become a guardian of those she held dearest.

Another plan formed in Cheedo's head, which seemed to be full of those lately. She wondered if this was how Furiosa felt all the time.

They skipped socialisation at Toast's and the next morning Cheedo asked Slit if he wanted to join her expedition.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So canonically Cheedo is the youngest of the Wives, which puts her in my head in her mid to late teens. I figure what with the constant threat of Immortan Joe gone she'd get to be young and daring before she settles down. Like the Citadel, and the Dag, are her home, but she'd want te have some adventures first (and let's be real. After living under Immortan Joe, fleeing from Immortan Joe and subsequently being accomplice to the death of Immortan Joe, what could possibly be scary after that?)
> 
> (and also I have a ridiculous lack of Nuxable in this fic, which will absolutely be remedied soon)
> 
> Also the name Funmilayo I referenced in the beginning doesn't come from nowhere. I borrowed it from Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, a Nigerian women's rights activist in the 40s. She was really awesome (and incidentally also the first woman in Nigeria to drive a car) and you can read more about here here:  
> http://info.umkc.edu/womenc/2013/03/27/womens-history-month-profile-funmilayo-ransome-kuti/


	16. Punishment

Before them, laid out like the tapestry of a god, the endless expanse of the desert. Uncharted land. Old world memories on faded paper the only proof that once people walked these paths. An hour's drive away from the busy susurrus of the Citadel there was only silence. Drive far enough and you might end up at the end of the world. Might end up on the ocean. If that existed still. But to reach even the dream of water so plentiful it stretched along the entire horizon one had to cross the ruins of a world killed by man's madness. It was sad in a way that most things were after the world died.

Meanwhile back in the car Cheedo had to content with a more immediate man's madness.

“We are _not_ naming the car 'Shank Cutter'.” Cheedo said, the first of what she felt would be many battles.

“Why not?” Slit whined and, as if the lack of a chrome name robbed him of all his strength, draped himself over the passenger seat, flailing dramatically in Cheedo's face.

“Because it's a shit name, you smeg. Ow! Come back here you bastard!”

Cheedo groaned as Plaga and Slit began brawling in the back. She put her head in her hands, wondering what had possessed her going on a trip with nothing but war boys for company.

“They're professional.” she said, mimicking Furiosa's advice before they drove off. “They know the road's dangerous. They can be serious.” The sound of glass shattering told Cheedo the rear window yielded to the war boys on the first day of their trip. From the noise it appeared Plaga tried to throw Slit out of the car. Spotface who should be busy with driving nonetheless found the time to cast the occasional wistful glance towards the roughhousing boys. The rear mirror provided insight into a battle that had changed from trying to eject each other from a moving vehicle to various attempts of kicking each other in the soft bits. The backseat hardly provided enough space for this kind of maneuver, which gave the whole affair an air of ridiculousness.

“Will you stop it already?” she shouted and leaned over to pull them by the belt into their respective seats. “And if one of you even _thinks_ about saying 'he started it' I will turn this rig around, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sister Cheedo.” Plaga said sufficiently talked to. Slit however merely stuck out his tongue at the other war boy, accompanied by that weird whistling noise he could do through the scars in his cheeks and said: “Annoying little shit. Should'a offed ya when I had the chance.”

Even the engine seemed to fall silent. Slit didn't notice to what he almost confessed, but Cheedo needed only to see the suddenly very busy looking Spotface and a Plaga who closed his eyes in silent agony to put two and two together.

“That was you?” she asked still, gesturing at the various fresh scars on the boys, voice just short of panic. Slit didn't look overly apologetic, though there was a shadow of worry on his face that hadn't been there before.

“Yeah. So what? They tried thieving from me.”

“You almost killed them! Do you have _any_ idea how close … , how long it took … what were you _thinking_?”

“'s how War Boys solve problems. Always been that way. 's not wrong.” Slit said. Maybe it was wishful thinking but Cheedo could have sworn he tried to convince himself as much as he did her. Staring into his unrepentant face she decided it _was_ wishful thinking.

“Of course it's wrong, you can't just …”  
She had him in her car. The realisation struck like a slap to her cheek. On a trip weeks long with only her between Slit and his victims.

“Out.” she said through clenched teeth.  
“Out?” Slit echoed, defensive stance lowered into something nearly timid.

“Out. On the Lancer's perch. Keep watch or, or whatever, I don't care, but I don't want to look at you right now. And when we return to the Citadel Furiosa will hear about this.”  
Slit followed the command without a word. He scrambled through the broken window out and settled down, back turned to them.

Silence settled into the car for the first time since they all got in. Spotface kept his eyes on the road ahead, Plaga looked as if it was his fault Slit got banished to the perch. Cheedo's head was too full of worries of a repeat incident to notice. She should have needled them more for their assailant. But how could she have known that of the four dozen surviving war boys she'd pick, by pure chance, the one who carved a frowning face right into Spotface's stomach. Of course, Furiosa would have known, somehow. She always knew things like that. Toast would have known, she was so close with her crew, they'd have told her. She prided herself so much on the fact that the war boys liked her but they didn't trust her. Not enough to share who attacked them. Spotface drove as if he tried to put physical distance between himself and the awkwardness in the car.

“Sister Cheedo?” Plaga asked after hours of quiet travel, when the sun was low enough to tint the desert violet.

“Hmm?” she made distractedly, still worrying about how to keep Slit from finishing what he started.

“Why'd you reward Slit if you are angry with him?”  
Deep in thought the question took some time to grab hold in Cheedo's brain. When it did she frowned.

“Reward?”  
“It's just.” Plaga added hastily. “It sounded like you were angry at Slit, but then you allowed him to be useful to you. I was just wondering if … 'm sorry. Don't mean to question.” His voice devolved into a whisper towards the end. Her eyes were fixed on his hands, fiddling with the frayed cord of one of his belts. Of all the Wives she thought she understood the war boys best. Although it was disconcerting to think that maybe she was.

“No, it's alright.” Another mistake and they weren't even a full day into their mission. “It was meant as punishment, making it so that he's alone out there.” While we're in here also not exactly cheerful, she added in her head. “How do war boys usually get punished when they do something wrong?”  
Plaga looked down at himself, then at Spotface. Right. Slit had demonstrated war boy justice quite clearly.

She went on to say something when Slit ducked his head into the rig.  
“Eyes on.” he said, pointing northwest. Following his directions, Cheedo spotted nothing but sand. It took several minutes with the binoculars to find them.

A band of merchants, dead for days. They had to drive nearly five minutes to reach them. How Slit had spotted them in the dusk and with one blind eye Cheedo would never know. But then again Nux always praised him as the best lancer. Perhaps that was one reason.

The cart, drawn by two motorbikes, stood as undisturbed in the sand as if its owners had just gone for a walk. No signs of a fight, no bullet holes or blood splatters. Just the cart and the bikes and the remains of the people owning it. It was impossible to say who had been man or woman. Their corpses were vulture fodder. Cheedo knew it was vultures because the remains of the birds lay beside their last meal.

“Don't touch anything.” she said and just in time, as Slit had reached down to relieve one of the corpses off their water pouch.

“They've been poisoned. Could have been something they ate, could have been the water. But it was strong enough to kill the vultures feeding on their flesh.”

Poison as a concept wasn't completely foreign to war boys. They knew of blood poisoning, of the poison in the earth that made wounds fester. They knew of spikes tipped in snake's venom that made the buzzard attacks so very deadly. But …

“Why would they poison water?” Spotface asked, kicking the almost full pouch one corpse still had in its hand. Perhaps the effects of the poison had caused thirst or the person had tried to flush it out. Either way, Cheedo filed it away, just in case.

“Probably not deliberately. If there's a water source nearby, it could be tainted.”  
“Dead stuff.” Slit threw in, earning confusion for his addition to the conversation. “Happens sometimes at the water plants. Stupid animals drown and we have to fish 'em out and empty the vat. One of the pups tried to drink the stuff and was sick all day.”

As far as things went, this was surprisingly social for Slit's standards.

“Think we should try to find the source, boss?” Plaga asked.  
“No. Best to avoid it. Is there something in the cart we can use?”  
Salvaging the cart would take some time. Seeing as it rapidly approached sundown, Cheedo gave the order to drag the corpses away and set up camp for the night. Both the merchants cart and their own rig gave them plenty of cover, from wind, sand and potential raiders. Within minutes Slit had a fire going, while Spotface and Plaga went off to presumably rifle through the merchants stocks. It left Cheedo with little to do except to work on the map.

The merchants, she thought would have been on their way to the Citadel. It was the only major settlement to the south and Cheedo carefully marked the spot they found them. They had important things to do but the fact that there was enough left ot salvage meant raiders hadn't gotten to them yet. A relatively safe patch with a source of water that hopefully could be salvaged was in itself almost worth the expense of the trip. With some graphite she lightly jotted down some points she thought where the source of water could be, based on the speed the merchants were likely traveling at and where they'd come from. She felt bad for the merchants but all in all this had been a lucky find.

“Good job spotting this.” Cheedo said to Slit, who currently sat close enough to the fire to cast eery shadows on his face. He looked up. His right eye seemed to glow in the light.

He grunted and went back to whatever he worked on. Something metallic glinted between his fingers.

“What're you doing there?” She asked, half worrying he fashioned a weapon of some sort, half doubting it could be anything else.

“Stuff.” he mumbled. Cheedo rolled her eyes.

“How very informative.” she said. Slit shot her a sly grin. Sarcasm worked, then. He showed her the thing in his hands, some kind of chain, adorned with various bits of … trash. Small scraps of leather, a couple of nuts and bolts in different colours and even the odd feather that Cheedo suspected he'd nicked from the vultures despite her order not to touch them.

“Alright.” she ventured carefully. “What is it?”

He shrugged and went back to what was apparently very important work.

“Just stuff. For the lances.”

Cheedo looked at the ones on the car, all adorned with similar collections of scraps.

“Do they work better with those?” she asked, angling for some kind of war boy superstition.

“Nah. Just look shinier.”

Cheedo stared at Slit long enough to become uncomfortable. Angharad always said the war boys were dead inside. That the Immortan had driven everything out that made them human and replaced it with murderous intent. One night she'd wondered if there were war boy songs and Toast had agreed with Angharad, saying that cannon fodder didn't make music except the infernal noise the Doof Warrior produced. But that was art, right there. Something with no use except to be looked at fondly.

“What?” Slit growled irritably after her staring had stretched on for too long to be strictly normal.

“Nothing.” she said, but smiled. Slit looked at her for a second, then shook his head with a huff and went back to his art.

Cheedo watched the flames lick against the dark sky, relishing in the warmth it provided. To think the war boys had lived just outside the Vault for years, a whole world Cheedo had had no clue about until their escape. They were different in almost every regard. Especially Slit who killed and tortured without regret but also without malice. Who simply didn't understand why it was wrong. But there had to be something salvageable. He had an eye for beauty. Probably the broken one, but still.

“Say …” she began after a while. “Spotface and Plaga have been gone an awful while.”

Slit shrugged as if he couldn't care less if the two had been carried off by vultures but he did follow Cheedo as she went looking. The search didn't last long. She found them the first spot she checked, in the cart. Naked. Rubbing against each other. She squeaked, the image of two white naked butts forever seared into her brain, and startled the boys who up until now had been occupied with said naked butts.

What followed was a train wreck of hastily thrown on clothes, shouting on all sides that dissolved into incoherent garbling as the boys tried to justify themselves and Cheedo tried to think as little as possible about what war boys got up to in their private time. Most of the things the war boys said got lost in the fact that they spoke largely simultaneous in varying octaves of panic but one thing rang through clear as day.  
“I forced him!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cheedo froze. Spotface stood in front of Plaga, trembling with the cold or something else and held her stare inch for inch.

“I forced him.” he repeated when it was clear he had everyone's attention. “Plaga didn't wanna touch soft, but I did. I did all of it. Made him do it.”

Bile rose in her throat, realising just what she'd walked into. What had been going on behind her back for who knew how long.

“He's lying!” Plaga said, shoving Spotface aside. “He's lying, Sister Cheedo, I was the one who forced him. It was me, me all alone. He's just scared of me. Thinks I'm gonna make him do it more if he doesn't lie. It was me.”

Spotface fell back in and the ruckus of two war boys both vying for attention, falling over their feet to confess to a horrible crime started up again.

“Shut up. Both of you.” she said and even though her voice barely rose above a whisper they immediately fell silent.

“Tell me what happened. _The truth_.”

They acted as if Cheedo just sentenced them to death. It was Spotface who finally spoke, softly and staring at his own feet. Plaga had taken his hand and squeezed it tightly and that, if nothing else, calmed her down somewhat.

“We saw the Wretched doing it once. We were helping them with the well, out by Bartertown. There were two who were always together and they said they were partners, like lancer and driver they said. And they did things, like pushing their faces against each other and stuff. It feels really nice they said and that sometimes when you like someone a lot you wanna do stuff with them, but not like driving or fighting. And we saw the Dag and you and we thought … we thought we could try it. Just once, I swear, just that one time.”

“One time is enough. You're gonna get shredded.” Slit hissed between clenched teeth, but Cheedo barely listened.

“So no one forced anyone?” she made sure and, at the timid headshakes of the boys, breathed a sigh of relief.

“Plaga was the only one who wouldn't tell. No one could know, we tried to keep it secret. No one else would have kept it secret.”

Plaga nodded, nervous but ready to stand by his friend. Or whatever the two were.

It was around that time, when the shock of seemingly discovering a war boy raping another wore off, that Cheedo remembered Slit. Not the one who was standing next to her, staring at Plaga and Spotface with so much venom in his eyes it almost dripped out. But the one who'd panicked when she touched him gently but had never so much as blinked at the stinging wounds she cleaned.

“Why were you so afraid of being discovered?” Cheedo asked, keeping her tone soft. Leading the boys back to the fire by the sound of her voice alone.

The war boys told her. In an effort to please her or their own shock making them talkative, they told Cheedo everything.

Any touch gentler than a punch was forbidden from the day a pup became a boy. War boys were hard and chrome like metal, not like the squishy mold the Immortan made them from. One soft touch could break them, he said, veer them off the path to Valhalla, making them little better than the Wretched. Cheedo had an idea or two why the Immortan wouldn't want his boys to discover their own sexuality, but she kept quiet. Spotface and Plaga tried their best not to talk over each other too much, but there were still interruptions, breaks in the tale when one corrected something the other was saying.

So when the time came for a war pup to be assigned a permanent job and the honour to do work in the Immortan's name, this one rule stood above almost all others. No more touching soft. Few understood the change and most were caught sharing a hug or petting each other at night when they thought everyone else was asleep. On first offense they were merely beaten and Plaga showed off, somewhat proudly, the lump just below his chest where a broken rib had never healed properly and stuck out under his skin like a small tentpole.

Third offense meant no more top ups, reducing the lifespan of a war boy drastically. When Cheedo asked what happened on second offense, neither would look at her. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know anymore, if it had even reckless war boys nearly immune to pain scared.

“They use the rod.” Slit said, the first time he'd spoken in a while. He sat away from them, too far to be warmed by the fire, knees drawn up to his chest and speaking without striking up eye contact.

“Steel rod, white hot from the fire. They cut you open and burn just your insides. Stops you from bleeding. So they can do it again.”

“How often?” Cheedo asked, breathless. She really didn't want to know but, at the same time, couldn't stop herself from asking.

“Until you get it.” Slit said. His hand hovered over his sides, as if to hide the deep gashes there. Cheedo saw them and didn't ask.

This was not something that could be solved overnight. For many war boys it could never be solved. But still they had to know there would be no condemnation, at least from Cheedo and her Sisters.

“If you want you can touch each other. As long as you don't do something against their will, you can touch each other soft.”

Plaga and Spotface looked up at her, some glimmer of hope in their eyes.

“We can …?” Spotface said pointing between himself and Plaga.

“Yes. And if anyone's giving you trouble, send them to me and I'll sort it out.”

Who'd be the one giving trouble was left unspoken. In any case, Slit seemed to be busy enough with his own thoughts.

 


	17. City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after some impromptu renovating I have an all new room and an actually really good excuse for not updating in a while. Like, I put together an Ikea bunk bed all by myself. My back's still aching but I have an awesome new bunk bed. Also a new chapter, which is probably more relevant to your interests.

As the memories returned, so did the stirrings. He should know better than to feel them. He _did_ know better. But pain faded, even if it never vanished, and Cheedo's words and the things they caught Spotface and Plaga doing, scorched madness into Slit's brain. There was no harm in trying, he told himself, just to make sure the lessons still stuck. No one had to find out. _He_ wasn't an idiot. He'd do it while on watch, when everyone was sleeping. But the night came and went and Slit never moved from his post, never overcame his fear. The thought alone of doing _that_ made his blood pound in his ears until he no longer heard the gentle stirring of sand. And though the scars on his stomach hadn't acted up in years, he felt them pulsing now, like fresh wounds. Maybe the urges'd go away by themselves. Maybe no one had to beat him this time.

The days he spent on the lancer's perch he shared with Plaga, scanning the desert until the sky turned yellow and blinded him. They drew close to their goal now, judging by Cheedo's excited murmurs. She consulted the map more often now, compared landmarks they saw with the one the old world people drew on it. Once they saw something called a billboard sticking out from the sand and Cheedo had been so excited they made camp and tried to decipher the faded writings. Without bothering to think of why, Slit tore a piece of green paper from the billboard and hid it in his pockets. If it impressed a Wife it had to be chrome, right? His new find distracted him from thoughts about attempting to do _it_ again, at least for a while. He almost ran out of materials for his lance decorations, but he took what he had left and fashioned something special, the green paper securely tied between wire and screws.

It was one such night of keeping watch, his three companions huddled together for warmth and sleeping like the dead, that Slit found his hands empty of work. His knives were sharper than sunlight, their guns all cleaned and oiled, the last of his trinkets worked into charms. He had nothing left to concentrate on despite the stirrings.

“Fuck.” he cursed under his breath, pressing down onto the gashes in his stomach. Pain flared up and drowned his thoughts in terrible noise. Looking around to make sure his cursing hadn't woken anyone up, he found the camp still silent. They wouldn't see him immediately, even if they woke. Cheedo insisted on keeping a lantern on at night, despite the waste of oil, and their eyes had to get used to the darkness before spotting him. Plenty of time to pretend nothing happened.

Of course, up until now, nothing did.

Slit chastised himself for being mediocre. The rules had changed, it was allowed now. Only an idiot would be afraid of something that didn't threaten him.

Careful not to rustle his clothes he reached around himself and, gingerly, brushed his fingertips over his right arm. Pulled them away quickly to listen for anything out of the ordinary.

That hadn't been too bad. Though not good either. He did it again, the same motion that over a hundred days ago Splendid had done to him the night he asked her to touch him soft. It was frustratingly different, none of the warmth he'd felt then carried over. It figured that a wife would know better than him how to touch soft. He had to be doing something wrong. But now that he already started there was no harm in going just a bit further. Slit tried to remember the places he avoided touching usually, the ones that made his skin pull taut and hot. Reaching down as if to unsheath the knife in his boot he felt for the hollow of his knee. The touch there sent a tingle up his spine, forcing a shudder through his body.

That was more like it. Emboldened by his success Slit started searching for more places like that one, tracing his fingertips over the fabric of his pants back to bare skin. The crook of his elbow proved equally receptive to touch and he lingered there for a long while, just dragging out random patterns in the thin skin, relishing the feel of it. The scars in his stomach burned but for now he could block it out. Instead of concentrating on that old memory of hot steel, he pulled up a more recent one, calling to mind the things Spotface and Plaga had been doing. Most of the details were lost in the flurry of things happening afterwards, but some things stuck. Their arms cradling their bodies as if carrying the other. Their lips and noses and foreheads touching in motions Slit didn't even pretend to understand. None of those were things he could try by himself. For one fleeting second he wondered if Splendid would have done some of those things with him if he asked. Before he traitored her. He'd trust her not to tell on him. He shoved the thought away, but it cropped up again like a rust hole in the pipes of a car, prone to cause something catastrophic to happen with its mere presence.

His face was too ugly for her to want to touch it, even in his imagination, but he could pretend she'd like to touch his leg and draw it over her waist like Spotface had with Plaga. Carressing that sensitive spot in the back of his knee and scratching his neck. He mimicked the motion with his own hand, made sure that to anyone looking on it would look like he simply had an itch to scratch instead of touching himself soft. Splendid would be kind about it, he knew. Wouldn't make him work too hard to earn these touches and wouldn't hurt him too much afterwards. Maybe if he worked especially hard and gave her lots of chrome things, she'd even let him touch her back. If he promised not to tell. He wanted that, V8 he wanted that more than anything else. His breath came harder now as he thought of Splendid taking his hand and guiding it to her hair, her face. Granting him permission to worship at her feet, closer and more intimate than he'd ever been allowed to worship the Immortan.

_He raped me! Raped all of us!_

_It's when someone touches the soft bits of you …_

Slit tore his hand away like stung. His scars stung like mad and he had to push down on them just to replace one pain with another. Cursing under his breath he pressed his hand onto the gashes, willing the throbbing to ebb away and make way for the self-inflicted sharp pain he could control. Any thought of touching soft was gone. He had to be the biggest idiot ever to make a war boy (except, of course, Morsov.)

Just because Cheedo had allowed them to touch soft, didn't mean Splendid did, too. She'd have killed Plaga and Spotface if she caught them. She hated the Immortan for touching her soft, how much would she hate a war boy for doing the same?

“Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Slit dug deeper into his scars, relished in the pain that sliced through him like knives. Stupid, stupid filth he was, for assuming Splendid liked touching soft because Cheedo didn't mind it. She said it hurt her, this rape-thing that Immortan Joe had done to her and the others. Slit only knew it had something to do with touching soft, but idiot smeg that he was he forgot about it. Splendid would not approve of war boys starting to touch soft themselves or each other, no matter what anyone said. He could not ever do this again.

 

Slit had been acting strange for days now but Cheedo's resolve to ask him about it faltered everytime he shot her one of his gloomy looks. Something clearly upset him but perhaps it was just the rising tension from coming closer and closer to their goal. The roads grew harder to navigate and Spotface generally had to concentrate fully on finding a route through the rubble of fallen stone and jagged rocks.

They drove past something that looked like the skeleton of an ancient beast until Slit perked up and informed them it was metal beams, dulled from abrasive sand, rather than bones. Still the structure loomed over them far longer than they needed to pass it, its shadows casting the road ahead into an eerie gloom.

“Keep your guard up.” Spotface said as they entered a hill formation high enough to resemble the canyon at the Citadel.

“Perfect place for an ambush.” Plaga agreed, one hand on a lance, the same as Slit on the other side. Cheedo had ordered them both inside the moment they passed the metal skeleton but they still managed to look ready to fling themselves into a fiery death.

Nothing came forward as they drove on. No crazed raiders, no traps or alarms. The road looked as peaceful as it sounded, nothing indicating that anyone had been to this place before except for them. Occasionally bright sun spots hit their car, reminding Cheedo there was a world out there that wasn't tinged in shadow. This place made her uneasy.

“Could it be there's just no one here?” she wondered, hoping against hope there was nothing in this place to be scared of.

“'s too good a place to pass up. If people die here, someone else moves in. Unless there's someone deadlier. Or something.”

“Thank you for that mental image.” Cheedo said drily and saw the war boys grin uncertainly. They were right, of course. Either someone lived here, or something else made sure no one did. Either way their presence would hardly be welcome.

Despite the tension being strong enough to make their collective skin crawl, Spotface drove only at walking speed, hand on the shift stick, ready to either accelerate or avoid traps.

“Where to?” he asked as they approached an intersection.

“Left.” Cheedo said, directing the war boy through the maze of roads.

Something glinted in the sunlight but was gone the moment they drove past. More metal skeletons stuck out from the sand and again it was Slit who proved to be the most perceptive.

“Those are houses. Big ones.”

“What? You're insane.” Plaga said, brushing Slit off with a wave of his hand. But Cheedo took a closer look at the strange skeletons.

“It was supposed to be a city according to this map. I just never thought … these houses must have been really tall. Hundreds of people could live in just one.”

“How many people do you think lived in this city?” Plaga asked, foregoing the question of how many still did.

“Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.” The more fallen houses they drove by, the more it appeared to Cheedo that the earth's entire population must have lived in this place. Perhaps it used to be like that. People living close together in harmony instead of at a wary distance. With this many occupants this city must have been the world's capital, home to all kinds of different people. So engrossed in wild imaginings of the old world she almost missed the place they'd been looking for. But there it was, mostly intact even. And clearly inhabited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was probably the lamest attempt at masturbation I ever decided to write. It doesn't even deserve an up in the rating. Slit, really, get your act together. Don't worry though, the steamy stuff will come. Eventually.  
> Also, for those of you who are interested, I decided to base the medical research faculty on the Garvan Institute of Medical Research, located inconveniently in the middle of Sydney. I would have preferred a solitary lab in the middle of nowhere, but no, people wanna use the bus to drive to work or whatever. Seriously intereferes with my postapocalyptic lots of nothing with stuff in between aesthetic.


	18. Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should mention that I always finish my work (unless I suffer a premature demise and it turns out there's no Wifi in Heaven after all) although this idea of 'regular updates' is still somewhat foreign to me. And by 'somewhat foreign' I mean I dread the day when I have to meet deadlines.  
> So, completely erratically, have another chapter just a whole day after the last.

The concept of a mattress was foreign to war boys, who typically slept on slabs hewn into the stone, with only thin blankets to fend off the cold brought on by the night fevers, whenever they didn't make him feel like sleeping in the forges.

As such the first time Nux sunk into the bed Capable claimed for them, he was, for one agitated minute, afraid he might sink into this hellish contraption and never return. But as days passed he got plenty of time to get used to mattresses and stuffed pillows and thick blankets. The latter of which were equal parts blessing and hardship. He used to kick off his blanket everytime it got too hot and drawing it up again when he felt cold. He couldn't do that now that he slept with Capable. She slept lightly and woke when he moved around too much and when she saw him drenched in sweat, pushing at the blanket even though outside the air was freezing, she grew so worried Nux couldn't stand to see it. The Dag's medicines had made things better, but breathing came harder than it had ever before and he'd much rather spend his remaining days with Capable not looking at him with this aching pity. Whenever the blanket grew too stuffy, he simply pushed his nose in the red mass of her hair and breathed in her scent until the hot flushes went away.

He did it that night, her arms protectively slung around him, the way she took to doing every night. He didn't need to ask to know that she feared him dying in the night and waking to find him gone. They shared that fear. But tonight wasn't too bad, and even though he found no rest, Larry and Barry allowed him to breathe without gasping.  
Further down the hall he heard Angharad dreaming. He pricked up his ears to try and tell if this was one of those night terrors that went away quickly. It disturbed him a bit that he could tell which Sister was dreaming by the sounds alone. They shouldn't have night terrors at all, it was a thing for war boys to suffer from. Even though Nux knew what happened to them in the Vault he still found it inconceivable that full-lives like Capable and her Sisters had to live with bad dreams.

The whimpers and cries continued, meaning she'd probably not wake by herself. With Toast it was easier. She screamed and thrashed and occasionally kicked but woke easily. One generally just had to call her name across the hall. Nux woke her up this way almost every night, whispering into Capable's ear to go back to sleep when she blinked her eyes open. With Angharad it was different. Things changed between them ever since returning to the Citadel and though she didn't feel as much animosity towards him than to the other war boys, their relationship was still strained. Add to that that she typically needed a few minutes to gather her wits after having night terrors and it once resulted in a panicked Angharad almost slicing him open with a knife she'd hidden underneath her pillow. Now it was his duty to wake Capable when Angharad dreamed and he did so now, gently shaking her shoulder.

“Capable? Capable. Angharad's dreaming. 's bad.”

Her sleepy noises almost made Nux want to risk disembowelment again rather than tear her from sleep, but orders were orders and he kept talking until she was awake enough to process what was happening. With a barely suppressed yawn Capable got out of bed, lamp in one hand, holding the blankets around her shoulders with the other. Nux took the lamp and lit the way to Angharad's room. They passed Toast's who seemed to be sleeping soundly for once and Cheedo's and the Dag's. The door was open and the room empty, meaning the Dag probably wandered the Citadel again, as she'd taken to doing ever since Cheedo went on her expedition.

Nux stayed in the doorway, hand raised high to illuminate the bare bedroom Angharad slept in, watching on with a worried frown as Capable sat on the bed next to Angharad and spoke to her in hushed whispers.

“This is your dream, Angharad. You decide what happens next. There's blue skies and green fields if you want them to be. The Vault is far away. He can't keep you imprisoned in there, not in your world.”  
Gradually Angharad's pained whimpers died down, her fearful expression shifting into one of determination. Capable kept talking, stroking Angharad's hand that gripped the bedsheets tight enough to whiten her knuckles.

“Go wherever you want to go, as far away as you can imagine. Your dream, your rules.”

Nux shifted from one leg to the other, making the shadows cast by lamplight dance. He saw Angharad waken, frowning and holding Capable's gaze until the world came back to her. Sighing exhausted she sank back into the mattress, wiping the sweat off her forehead.

“Thank you.” she said and even cast a short look towards Nux who beamed under the attention.

“Do you want to try and sleep again?” Capable asked and Angharad shook her head and got up. Nux obediently turned his back, even though most of the Wives slept in more clothes than they wore during the day. This was one of the rules he followed more because Capable told him to than out of real understanding. It made a certain kind of sense, he supposed, that people didn't want to be seen in clothes they only wore when alone. His confusion came from the fact that some people had special clothes to wear when alone. Privacy, like mattresses, were new and strange concepts for a war boy to wrap his head around.

They left the hall to their respective rooms and strolled along the convoluted pathways of the inner Citadel. They trusted him to know the way and not get them lost and Nux made sure to lead the Sisters only to pleasant spots. Usually when Capable had to walk off the restlessness that night terrors brought, they climbed onto one of the sentry towers and watched the stars undisturbed by the war boy on watch duty. But even with the occasional company it was a place and time for only the two of them. While Angharad and Capable talked in soft tones about their dreams and fears, Nux brought them to a place he knew would be lively even at this time of night. Some company would do them all good.

 

The new infirmary was situated near the top of the Citadel, in a hall with wide window panes flooding it with light during the day. Now lanterns burned over every other bed, providing enough warm light for Nux to put out their own. Most of the war boys here slept restlessly throughout the day, for lack of work and boredom, and stayed awake through the night. It had always been this way, even when it was still people hanging from the ceiling providing blood instead of the bags they now used.

Apparently someone else had had the same idea as them and sought company with the sick.

“... and then the brave Funmilayo tore the wheel out of the man's hands and claimed the car for her own. She drove off and was soon followed by all her sisters and brothers and they roam the streets still, watching over anyone who needs their help.”

Nux, Capable and Angharad approached the group of pups and boys, eagerly listening to the Dag's stories. They were piled almost on top of each other, legs perched over someone's back, a head resting in another's lap and pups stuffed in every free nook. Despite their close proximity only the pups were petted. The boys vied for better spots, shoved and pushed at each other minimally enough to crowd into another's boy personal space without losing focus of the story. It was like a very slow fight, and from this angle Nux supposed one could mistake it for cuddling. Capable had the first time and was utterly shocked when more serious brawls had broken out in what she perceived as peaceful affection. These boys though were too sick to fight properly and thus safe to be around. Nux ordered them to make space and they parted to let the three sit, with some scuffling as each tried to get as close to them as possible while still maintaining a respectful distance. The pups had less respect and crawled over the pile of war boys right into both his own and Capable's lap.

“Joining us for a night of stories?” The Dag said in her melodious voice.

“We're not late, are we?” Capable said with a smile.

“There are still many stories left to tell.”

As if on cue the boys and pups asked for their favourite stories.

“Do the one with the harpies please.”  
“Tell us about the car on the ocean again.”

“I wanna hear more about Funmilayo.”  
“The one with the tree and the wolf.”

It took the threat of ending storytime right then to get the boys to quiet down and they settled into the pile of blankets and pillows once more, pushing each other only a bit more forcefully than before. The Dag searched her mind for a fitting story to tell, staring off into the middle distance as she hummed and muttered her way along the winding road of her memory.

“There is one that I have not told before, not even to the light of my heart.”

A collective gasp went through the crowd of war boys and Nux found himself leaning forward, the excitement jumping over to him like sparks on metal.

“There once were two dogs living in a tiny village.” the Dag began, and her lilting voice dropped to a whisper that held her audience captivated. “One dog was strong and almost as big as a human, with one eye that always bled and a smile carved into his snout. His name was Custos and he guarded the edges of the village and let no one enter or leave.

The other dog was small with barely any meat on her bones, but she was quick and clever and longed to see the world outside. Her name was Cupita and every day she went to the edge of the village to gaze upon the endless sands. But as soon as she made one step more, SNAP. There was Custos who barked and bared his teeth at her until she ran away and hid in the shadows far away from him.

No matter how quiet she traipsed, no matter how fast she dashed, no matter how cleverly she planned, Custos always caught her and bit at her and followed her every move with his eye that always bled. So the days went and Custos still roamed the village border, taking cloth and flesh from anyone who'd dare come near. Oh, how Cupita hated this feral mutt, who denied her freedom and how she wished for him to choke on the meat he tore from the unsuspecting villagers who tried leaving for a walk.

One day Cupita hatched a plan. If neither her speed nor strength served her, maybe her charm would persuade him to let her leave. Instead of running that day she strolled up to Custos as if she had no mind to the outside world and offered him part of her meal. Custos was so very confused he nigh forgot breathing. This had never happened before. People threw rocks at him or beat him with sticks but none had ever shown him kindness. Cupita saw this and knew her goal would be easily reached. 'You are a magnificent guard dog.' she said and that no one could match his strength. She flattered him with words as shiny as the moon and soon Custos promised to give her anything she wanted if only she'd never stop saying sweet words to him.

'Let me leave', she asked and though he promised her the world this was something he was reluctant to give. 'I cannot', he said, 'even though your words warm my bones I can never let you leave. For my master is a most fearsome man and many times as big as I. If I were to let you go he would break my bones and tear my fur. I can never leave my post for fear of him.' How could this be,

Cupita wondered, that this creature with one eye that always bled and a smile carved into his snout was afraid just as she was. She knew then that this big dog and herself were the same at heart and she felt a deep fondness for him. 'Fear makes us weak.' she said 'But together we can be brave.' And together they made a plan to free the village of it's borders forevermore. In the morning thereafter they brought together the whole village, old and young, sick and healthy, the big and the tiny people alike. Hand in hand, Cupita and Custos leading them, they marched toward the village border. The master stepped out of his house, enraged at this rebellion. He called for his watchdog but Custos would not bark and would not paw and would not bite nor bare the snout with a smile carved into. And they saw that the master was just an old man with no teeth of his own. Their fear lost the villagers and Cupita and Custos crossed the border and roamed the lands beyond. But they always returned, for now the village was no longer a prison, but home.”

Nux cheered with the others at the outcome of this story, and immediately fell into a discussion where to get dogs like Cupita and Custos and whether or not it was still allowed to eat dogs if it could be either of them. Some of the pups swore off dog forever and begged the older boys to find some to raise for themselves. The Dag merely watched, smiling at the pups and every now and then at Angharad with an expression Nux was sure meant something, although he couldn't figure out what. He watched the two curiously until the boys begging for another story grew too insistent and the Dag hushed them.

“One last story, and then you'll sleep.” she said, knowing full well most of them would fall asleep halfway through her next tale. The pups had already curled up between their elders and burrowed into the pile of blankets around. The one in Nux' lap yawned and plopped backwards against his chest, waiting with the patience of the exhausted for the Dag to start another tale. As she started he knew immediately that this one was for him, because it was about a goddess of fire and the little duckling she saved from drowning. It was a nice story to fall asleep to, and an ever nice one to wake up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making up stories is hard (said the writer. Who writes.) Seriously though this chapter was a blatant excuse at writing some Nuxable and war boy fluff. Also up: Avoiding plot-heavy stuff where people die. Probably. Maybe.


	19. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I wanna write fluff again. This took me almost two weeks to write, because apparently my brain likes the smoshy hurt/comfort much more than actual plot.

They entered the building without any pretence of being sneaky. Whoever put up the animal skulls on spikes outside the door and painted the windows with strange red symbols heard them approach. Still they advanced carefully, Slit and Spotface scouting ahead on light feet, while Plaga watched Cheedo's back. Shattered glass panes lined the railings of the stairs leading up higher, though curiously the floor was swept clean. All over they saw the signs of people scavenging what they could from the area. Wooden panes used to layer the entire left wall, now only the topmost were left, the others unscrewed to reveal bare concrete. A circular half-wall obstructed the far end of the hallway. Upon closer inspection Cheedo recognised it as a desk.

They reached the stairs, spiraling up at least 30 feet, providing frustratingly much cover for any potential enemies.

“Any chance the stuff we need is down here?” Slit asked, frowning up at the staircase. So far they hadn't heard so much as a footstep outside their own. It didn't reassure any of them.

“There's a floor plan near the entrance. I'll go look, but I think the library is up there.”

She set off, Plaga on her tail, while Slit and Spotface whispered about what in blazes a library was. She would have taught them but the eerie silence of the place made the hairs on her neck stand up and her skin pull taut. Teaching could come later.

The floor plan was hard to decipher, faded with age as it was. But even in its heyday it would have been a mess of lines and symbols Old World people might have understood. Such as the one they encountered hanging over a door that looked like a vague semblance of a human leaning towards a rectangle. Perhaps it had some religious significance, the rectangle representing some kind of afterlife, but Cheedo had little mind to find out. The only way to their goal was up the stairs, behind every step could lurk one of the maniacs living here. At least the windows in the roof provided ample light. They wouldn't have to crawl through perpetual dusk to-

Movement. Cheedo stilled, eyes darting towards the edge of the second floor. Nothing there but broken glass panes and closed doors. She swallowed daring to turn her head, fearing at any moment a bullet between the eyes. Something had been there, just on the edge of her vision. The sun reflected of it and when she'd looked there had been the shadow of motion. She needed to say something to alert the others but her throat was dry.

“Eyes on.”

She almost screamed. Spotface had snuck up to them, weapon leveled, whispering urgently.

“Saw something. 's gone now.”

So she hadn't imagined it. The three of them scanned the upper floor. There wasn't any space to hide, but something had been there.

“An animal perhaps?”

Spotface shrugged.

“Human would be better than an animal that big.”  
Whatever it had been it didn't show itself again. Even more on edge they made their way back to the stairs that Slit had been guarding. He didn't look any happier than Cheedo felt at having to go up there. He didn't complain though and climbed the stairs with plenty of space between Spotface, who followed next.

They reached the top without further incident and found themselves in a shorter hallway at the end of which doors, hanging in their panes, gave access to the library.

Cheedo had seen plenty of books in the vault and even though she knew there were many more in the world, she wasn't prepared for the sight that opened up before her. Shelf upon shelf of books, lining the round walls, all but untouched by the end of the world and what came after. Most of them would be readable. All of them held priceless knowledge.

“That's a lot of kindling.” Spotface said, showing the same amount of appreciation if not for the same reasons.

“How do you know which one you need?”

Plaga brought forth a sensible question. Cheedo had no idea. They all looked terribly nondescript, not one of them spouting in big bright letters something like “How to use and make the drugs you intend to steal, an edition for the post-apocalyptic wanderer”

“I'll … have to look through some of them. I'll try to be quick, but …”

“We'll set up here for a bit.” Spotface said, surveying their surroundings. “'s not too bad to defend.”

Someone before evidently thought the same. The place looked lived in, mattresses and blankets strewn about, crates that Cheedo ordered them not to touch, a fireplace in the middle of the room. The boys settled down around it, leaning against the desks, curiously upright but littered with the same symbols they'd seen on the windows downstairs, watching the exits and the balconies up above, where according to the floor plan the laboratories were housed. Cheedo wasted no time getting to work. She started at the leftmost shelf, slowly working her way clockwise around the room, pulling out books here and there. Thick piles of dust lay on the books, untouched for decades, but her feet kicked up nothing of the sort. Some shelves missed their books entirely and Cheedo had the creeping suspicion that whoever lived here would think more along the lines of “kindling” than “precious treasure to be guarded”. There was some kind of system behind the organisation, but bugger her if she knew what it was. Most of the titles were too complicated for her to read, even with what she had brushed up on back home. Some keywords she recognised, and she stuffed everything in her bag that had 'manufacture' in it.

“There!”

The war boys sprung to their feet, two rifles and one gun pointed at the spot Slit indicated. Cheedo flipped around and saw it too, something hushing along the upper floor, too quick and far away to be seen properly.

“Don't shoot!” Cheedo cried out and received three glances full of confusion and disappointment in return. “Maybe if we don't bother them, they'll let us be.”

It was a slim hope, one that the boys didn't share. It wasn't what they would have done if strangers entered their homes.

They started patroling the room then, restless from the lack of action and the constant awareness of something skulking around them, watching. Cheedo went through the rows of books even faster, skipping over the titles like a stone across water. It was on the sixth shelf she found something promising. “Basic overview of the treatment of malignant neoplasms and other cancerous diseases” and in smaller print the note that it was meant for teaching at universities. Cheedo had not the first clue what a university was, but the words 'basic overview' sounded promising. She stuffed the book in her bag, which had become a little too heavy for comfort and lifted it up on her shoulders. Spotface looked up hopefully and Cheedo nodded.

“We need to go up again.”  
No one particularly liked that thought but Slit took point, while Plaga and Spotface secured the rear, as they advanced back into the hallway and up the damned stairs again.

If the library looked lived in, the laboratories were positively deserted. The desks were messy, but the drawers all shut. After trying a few it became clear why. Most of them where locked.

“Go look for some keys. The things we need are dangerous in the wrong hands. It makes sense that the old world people would want to lock them away.”

There was too little space to cluster up, forcing them to space out across the room, watching each other's backs whenever their line of sight wasn't obscured by machinery or furniture. It was Spotface who found the keys and he preened under Cheedo's praise. Things were a bit more relaxed after that. They only needed to find the drugs, enough to test them and figure out how they worked. After seeing the rows and rows of books on the shelves, Cheedo was no longer sure producing them was as easy as she thought it would be.

But they passed the keys around and filled their bags with the piles and piles of pills and liquids until Cheedo was sure they could cure every war boy of his ailments and then some. They'd seen nothing of the people living here ever since coming up and that, together with the thought of making the boys healthy lightened her mood to the point of elation.

“This is gonna make us full-lives?” Plaga asked squishing a package of fire-red liquid in a bag. Cheedo nodded, smiling at the barely contained excitement coming from the war boys. Spotface practically bounced on his feet. Suddenly this venture seemed like an exciting trip rather than a dangerous and doomed quest for an impossible goal.

“'m gonna get some more.” Spotface said, setting off further down the laboratories.

“Wait, come back, we have enough!” Cheedo called but her voice was drowned out by Slit's panicked shout.  
“Stop! MINES!”

The explosion burst the windows. Cheedo's ears rang, glass raining down on them, slicing open skin, digging into hands as they fell. Plaga screamed and ran, right into the fire blazing up and singing the hair of her arm, as Cheedo reached out and caught the hem of his pants. He stumbled, fell, crying out for Spotface and struggling against Cheedo's grip. Glass phials exploded with the sheer heat, plastic melted and fell in agonising drops on their unprotected bodies. Her grip slipped, Plaga kicking and flailing madly at her.

“Slit!” she shouted, waved at him and he came, threw himself on Plaga and tore him away from the flames. They rapidly engulfed the laboratories, came closer too fast. The flames already licked Cheedo's face.

“We've gotta help him, please! He's gonna die, he's hurt, please, please! Spotface!”

She pulled herself to her feet, grabbed Plaga's shoulder who still fought against Slit.

“He's gone, you idiot!” Slit said, voice raised to be heard over the sound of fire consuming all. It didn't matter. Plaga acted as if he hadn't heard.

“Spotface! You're gonna burn, come over here!”

With their bags filled to the brim with drugs and a grief-stricken war boy between them they were much slower than the fire.

“Plaga, please, we've got to run.”

They got to the stairs, Slit pushing Plaga halfway down the stairs, catching him as he tried to wrestle him aside to get back up again. Tears streamed down his face.

She couldn't say anything to calm him, couldn't stop. Not when bullets started flying around them. They came from everywhere, dressed in scraps, painted with blood and mad eyes. In that moment Cheedo knew she was going to die. Heat on her back, bullets flying from all sides as they fell more than they ran downstairs. Rounding every corner, crouching low below the railings and scrunching their eyes closed as shots shattered the few remaining glass panes. Something hit her shoulder.

She ignored it, kept pushing forward, glad for every step she made. The end of the stairs came as a shock.

She fell, regained balance only so, found that Slit was already at the entrance, even with carrying Plaga across his shoulder. She followed, dodged bullets, hoped at least that she did. Sharp pain ran through her body but she could no longer tell its source. Smoke filled the air, made her eyes sting and then they were outside. The roar of the engine made her double her speed. She jumped towards the car. Slit caught her hand, pulled her inside and shot away, rumbling across torn streets. Away from the fire and the guns. Slit said nothing, his eyes on the road. Cheedo stared mutely ahead, not really seeing. Trying her hardest not to hear Plaga sobbing in the back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that feeling when you make up a background character who you don't expect will have more than two sentences to say and eight chapters later you cry when you kill him off? Yeah, no wonder this chapter took me so long.


	20. Return

When Cheedo returned, Angharad worked the water supply instead of greeting her. Distributing the water, learning from Furiosa the daily goings of the Citadel and picking up the slack in the infirmary that the Dag worked mostly alone left her too busy. The hours spent with Furiosa taught Angharad one thing. War boys always needed something. She assumed them to be background noise without many needs. Reality proved her wrong. They couldn't walk two steps without an Imperator approaching, giving a list of things the boys required. Simple things like a larger pair of pants for a growing pup were given quickly. But they needed jobs, too, and for that you had to know them in more than passing. Furiosa did, remembered every name and generally knew something to put with that name. She knew them the same way Angharad knew her Sisters. Whenever the war boys came together in a group larger than ten, Furiosa was there, among them, silent but present, listening, reprimanding and, on rare occasions, giving praise.

Some day she was expected to take over as Furiosa's second, to give the woman some time to rest, but if it included being this close to the war boys Angharad doubted her chances of ever succeeding. At least her relationship with Furiosa wasn't as rocky as she feared. She'd changed, some time between falling off the rig and returning to the Citadel two war boys in tow, Furiosa came to care for the Sisters as more than revenge at Immortan Joe. It wasn't always easy, Furiosa was more war boy than Vuvalini even if she didn't like it and therefore not always easy to get along with. But it worked and they trusted each other.

“They have favourites, you know?” Furiosa said one day when Angharad told her about her worries regarding the war boys. She frowned and Furiosa clarified: “Not like Joe had favourites. More like … having a favourite Imperator? It's hard to explain. In their minds you are some kind of Imperator. At least the older ones will always think that way. And they argue about which one of you they think is strongest, fastest or smartest. It can get … heated. They'll follow orders from anyone, but every war boy has an Imperator they respond to stronger than the others. You can use that, if you know how.”

“I doubt I'm any war boys favourite. I said I hate them. Pups cry when I walk past.”

To her surprise, Furiosa chuckled.

“You think you're the first to do that? Imperator Gulus had a reputation of hating the whole lot of them. Routinely beat war boys just for the fun of it.”

They dodged a pack of war boys dashing down to the garages. They had the altered war paint of Toast's crew. Angharad looked after them and imagined someone they looked up to used to beat them for no reason whatsoever.

“I don't like them. That doesn't mean I want to hurt them.”

“I didn't say you had to. My point is, Gulus had a lot of war boys admiring him. If you pleased him it was like pleasing Joe himself, you know? A 'good job' from Gulus meant a war boy was practically a legend among the others. It's not ideal, how they behave, but you can make it work for you. Be spare with your praise, pick your favourites but don't neglect the others. Most Imperators, even those who didn't drive out, had something like a crew. A dozen or so war boys they relied on for most of their work. Start with gathering that crew and you'll be fine.”

And Angharad was. Mostly.

The Dag's story tugged at her every now and then. That observant witch knew she still thought about Slit almost daily, with varying degrees of anger and disappointment, laced with hints of that fondness she had for him before he betrayed her. And now had the opportunity to do the same to Cheedo. She should never have let him go on that expedition. Her only solace was Furiosa's word that he wouldn't attempt another stunt like the one in Gas Town. It wasn't much but it got her mostly through the day. In the meantime she might as well work on getting along with war boys in general.

True to Furiosa's word, getting them to do her bidding was almost effortless. They practically fell over their feet to do the tasks she gave and after a few days of picking randomly out of the crowd, Angharad had found three who seemed most eager to be picked by her. All three had been part of the party rescued from the wreckage and none of them were younger than her. Capable, the Dag and Cheedo took well to the younger ones, who were still malleable to new influences. Toast had her crew and rarely interacted with war boys outside. Which meant a fair few, who'd always live under Immortan Joe's influence, fell through the cracks. Angharad's reputation preceeded her and even though she hadn't used violence on them, and never would, they responded to her stern authority best. She didn't get any gifts like the other Sisters did on occasion, but her war boys worked the hardest. It also didn't take much to give praise, Angharad learned. Even after she'd memorised all their names she used them only when she wanted to let a boy know he'd done well.

She was with these boys, loading up a truck with water rations for the outlying villages, when Cheedo's expedition returned.

A group of war boys raced past them to greet the triumphant heroes who'd gone farther north than even Immortan Joe dared. The ones working under Angharad's scrutiny wistfully stared after them. She got them back to work with a sharp word but resolved to let them off earlier so they could go see as well. There was no need for her to go herself. The Dag and Furiosa would be there. If something happened she'd know soon enough.   
Nothing happened, she told herself. Cheedo was fine, even though Slit was with her. Why would he betray her the same as he betrayed Angharad? The Dag trusted him, too, if her silly stories were anything to go by. No need to worry. She'd learn all about the journey that evening from Cheedo. There was no need to go there now, when they'd be crowded by war boys and eager to get their findings to Furiosa. If they were hurt, the Dag would take care of them. And if something happened to Cheedo or if Slit …

Angharad pushed the thought away and urged her boys to work faster. They completed their work in record time, and raced off to join the others the moment Angharad gave them the permission.

Technically she was free to see them as well. Cheedo would likely be disappointed if Angharad made herself scarce. Instead she went off to take inventory. It had to be done and with the salvage Cheedo likely brought back it was best done sooner rather than later. It was a perfectly reasonable thing to do and not at all an attempt to avoid learning something happened to Cheedo because Angharad let Slit go off with her.

 

She did visit Cheedo at least, when the ruckus died down a bit. Capable passed by earlier and told her with that solemn look on her face that she better get her ass to the infirmary and talk to their youngest Sister. Something went wrong, but Capable wouldn't elaborate. It made her heart race and the blood pound in her ears, but it couldn't have been about Cheedo. She'd know.

Slit was gone before Angharad arrived, too banged up to do his usual job at the water plants but insisting on doing something. Exasperated Furiosa promoted him to guard duty and sent him off. Even without him, the infirmary was still full. The medication they salvaged was barely enough to treat a handful of war boys. Not exactly the haul they hoped for and from the Dag's face it hadn't been easy picking out the most promising boys out of the two dozen that wouldn't survive the next month. She scowled as Angharad entered but her face softened into something at least pretending to be less strained than it was.   
“The little flower's with that war boy. He lost his friend.” She pointed to the bed at the far end, occupied by Cheedo, holding a war boy close to her chest. It spoke of how serious the situation was when none of them, except Capable, let the war boys that close to them. It also spoke of the trust Cheedo developed for at least this one. But most of all Angharad was relieved. Her Sister was fine. Shaken by whatever happened, but unhurt, alive and home. Slit had, after all, not betrayed her.

She slowly made her way there, saw that the war boy in Cheedo's arms cried or had been. Tears had washed away the white and bared streaks of brown skin, darker than Toast's even. Angharad scolded herself for being surprised. Spend too much time among them, and you forgot they were a different colour underneath.

“Hey.” Angharad said and Cheedo smiled up at her, sad and eyes as bright with unshed tears as the war boy's. Her companions had grown on her, it seemed. She settled down on the bed. There was little use in asking what happened. By now Cheedo would have told the story a million times already. To Furiosa, the Dag and Capable and to half a dozen war boys as well. She didn't need Angharad to relay the story again.

“Slit is up at the towers. He saved my life more than once but he still wants to be useful.” Cheedo said without prompting. Why did everyone think she cared that much about that smeg?

“I wanted to see you.” Angharad insisted. Which was true, anyway. She had gone to extraordinary lengths _not_ to see Slit. Or would have if she hadn't been too busy to visit sooner. Right.

“I know. But he talks about you sometimes. He'd be happy if you said hello.”

Maybe she'd be happy, too, saying hello. It was a surprising thought, brought on by the fact that Cheedo was alive and unhurt. Slit had protected her and brought her back safely. Maybe she  _should_ go say hello some time.

“It sounds like you want to get rid of me.” Angharad teased.

“No. Not at all. I'm glad I get to see you all again. It's been … a long journey.”

They both looked down at the war boy in Cheedo's arms.

“What happened?” Angharad asked against better judgment. For a moment it looked like Cheedo wouldn't answer. The pain that crossed her face reminded Angharad so starkly of the Vault she recoiled. 

“There were traps. We had the books and lots of meds and everything was quiet. It was nice, even. We thought we could help the entire Citadel with what he had. One pill for every war boy, but then …

It was an accident, no one could have known. Slit saw the mines, but it was too late and Spotface … he's gone.”

The war boy made an anguished noise, muffled by Cheedo's clothes. He pushed away, trembling all over.  
“We left him behind. We should have gone back.” he said and Angharad saw the exact moment his sorrow turned to hate.

“There was nothing we could have done.” Cheedo said, pleading tone betraying her feelings. She, too, felt like they should have tried harder.

“Buzzardshit.” The war boy gave her a brief look. Angharad was sure he'd attack her. “You killed him. You and your stupid books and stupid drugs.”

“Plaga …”  
But the war boy was already gone, leaving Cheedo shaking. It was her turn to be embraced. Angharad held her close and whispered assurances into her ear. Cheedo didn't cry, but she clung to Angharad and confessed her feelings of guilt, of seeing the war boy in flames and thinking only of running away. Maybe there was something they could have done. Each new time she recalled what happened there seemed to be something else, an extra second squandered, insight ignored. Each and every time his death seemed more preventable.  


 

After that Cheedo rarely talked about their expedition. Over the course of the next weeks she went back to normal, worked with the Dag in the infirmary and went through the books she brought with them. Slit was assigned permanent guard duty, taking up the night shifts usually on the southeast tower. Which was a completely arbitrary information Angharad had only learned about in passing. Occasionally she caught glimpses of him when he went to or from work. It was strange irony that he'd become a literal guard when the Dag's story about the dogs still squatted in a corner of Angharad's mind and refused to leave. It was a silly thing, and had nothing to do with reality. Anyway, when his work began she usually went to bed. It wasn't as if they had time to talk.

That changed days later when Furiosa sent her down to the bunks to dole out the water rations for the boys. While they were supposed to get their water themselves, few boys actually remembered. It was one of the small challenges every day to see that every war boy had enough to drink. She carried the crate down the many steps, passing war boys and pups and feeling oddly proud when they saluted her. She knew most of their names by now but only gave a few nods to the ones she knew had worked well for her Sisters.

Some bunks were occupied by the night shifts, among them Slit. He should have been sleeping at any rate, but when Angharad came down she found him awake, bleary eyed but upright and playing with a pup. He looked like just returned from the dead but it was also the first time she saw him close-up ever since that day in the feeding pits. He looked … nice, she guessed, for his standards. Not as cross with everything and even almost smiling at the pup who'd likely woken him demanding attention. And instead of shooing him off, to get back to his well earned sleep, Slit chose to play with him. He noticed her coming in and kept his head low, concentrating fully on the pup who was in the process of telling a tall tale about a monster living in the pipes.

Angharad passed around the water, debating with herself whether or not to talk to Slit. Her antipathy had greatly decreased ever since he brought her Sister back alive. Slit took the decision from her.

“Hey. Come over here.”

He had some guts to be ordering her around like that. A closer look however showed he was compensating for his nervousness. He poked holes in his blanket and tried to look tougher than he was. She still ignored him for the better part of her stay down in the bunks before wandering over, noting with satisfaction that he didn't expect her to approach him at all.

“Something important?” she asked. Slit flailed a bit, obviously taken aback by her willingness to not only be in his vicinity but talk to him civilly.

“Uh … no. Yes. … Or not.” he added at her stern glance. He looked away, entirely too bashful for someone with metal staples in his face, and stretched out his arm. In the palm of his hand lay a necklace. At least the approximation of one. It was fashioned from random bits all held together by a long string of leather and some chainlink. Mirror and glass made the whole thing glitter in what little light filtered through the cracks in the rock.

“'s for you. Got green in it.” Slit pointed out, still not looking at her. “Green's good, right?”

There was green in it. Paper, in fact, wound through the chains. Who knew how long Slit had carried this around with him. By all accounts the paper should have torn but it was still nestled in between all the other bits and pieces. Angharad took it very carefully, noting that Slit's palm was warm and sweaty and that his breath hitched when they touched.

“It's beautiful.” she said trying not to let the surprise show. She hadn't thought Slit was capable of making beautiful things. “Thank you.”

He shrugged and in that moment Angharad _knew_ he was crimson red under the paint. She spared them both the awkwardness of it and left, necklace tightly clutched in her hand.

 

When Angharad returned to her duties she wore the necklace under her clothes. It lay cold and heavy between her collarbones. She hadn't worn jewelry since Joe forced some onto her and the weight was unfamiliar but comforting. Joe would never have let her wear something as crude and heavy. She'd played with the thought of wearing it more open, it was pretty enough and fit well with the gear she usually wore, consisting of a myriad of pockets attached to shirt and pants made from the same material as the war boys wore. 

After some careful deliberation she kept the necklace hidden. The last thing she needed were her Sisters being smug about what they would, falsely, think of as a courting gift. 

They still knew, somehow. When Capable grinned at her over dinner she spent a few awkward minutes pulling up her shawl around her neck and chin. The Dag went into a dirty sequel of the dog story until Cheedo made her stop, if only to let Angharad know that Slit spent a lot of time making his art. Only Toast, blessed, grand Toast, took mercy on her and changed the topic to something less incriminating. 

Most recently their dinner talks centered around how to heal the war boys. Nux had not been responding well to the medication and came close to the edge more than once. They feared their trip had been for nothing, Capable demanding they do something, neither willing nor able to watch Nux die again. The books proved to be the real treasure. His lumps threatened to suffocate him when the Dag took a mad idea and made it reality.

That evening, Capable holding Nux' hand as he fought for every breath, the Dag gave him a potent sleep drought and, with a sharp knife, cut Larry and Barry out of his life forever. It was old world science, the surgical removal of benign tumours. Angharad didn't see anything benign about the suffering Nux endured, but it was what the Dag called medical speak. She said a lot of things about poor food choices and something called lead poisoning causing most of the weakness the war boys had and while Angharad understood only half of it the gist of it became clear. For a week now they tore out the old pipes and replaced them with materials approved by the Dag. In the meanwhile she set up special vats for cleaner water. It meant hauling barrels of the stuff from deep in the Citadel way up to the infirmary without the aid of pumps. Angharad's war boys took to the task well though and usually surpassed all other teams in efficiency. The Dag said it was too soon to see any tangible results but Nux seemed to be thriving on a free windpipe and the new diet the Dag set up for him and all the other sick boys. It was refreshing to have good news, even more so now that Angharad herself had some investment in it. Her team of three war boys had grown to one of almost a dozen and all of them suffered from one sickness or another. 

“I offered to cut out the nasty stuff out of your war boy, too, but he didn't want to.” The Dag said and for a moment Angharad wondered which one she meant until she remembered there was only one war boy they referred to as hers.

“Slit? You'd have to cut half his face away. More than he already tried.”

The Dag shrugged.

“I'm good with the blades. I even said I'd make him a little pretend ear so he'd look prettier but he called me names and ran away. He's a bit of a child.”

More than a bit, but Angharad didn't say that. The unspoken question 'can you talk to him?' hung in the air and she gave in without much ado. The alternative was to listen to them tease her about the necklace. So when they finished dinner and each went to fulfill their respective night routines, Toast working out her restlessness by practicing her fighting, Capable by teaching Nux to read, Cheedo and the Dag telling stories to each other, Angharad went up the rough stairs to the southwestern tower. 

 

 

Guard duty was a step-up from working the water vats. It was also the most boring job in existence but at least there was a small chance Slit got to throw thundersticks at something. So far no such opportunity presented itself, but hope, famously, died last. The long periods of boredom he spent making new adornments for his thundersticks or, like tonight, extending the network of scars on his stomach. Slit had a few well done scarifications, the one on his shoulder he liked best, but most of it he'd done himself, cutting his skin when he was bored or frustrated. Or both.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, giving Splendid the thing he made. It was far too shine to be blown up with a thunderstick and he had nowhere to put it. Carrying it around in his trousers was just as much of a waste. Splendid was chrome, she'd have better use for it. That had been his reasoning when he handed it to her, hoping she'd at least accept it and not make a fool of him. It was sensible. And maybe it'd make her like him again. 

He sliced a curve the shape of an S into his skin in the middle between his ribs. S for Splendid. He knew that letter because it was the same his own name started with. It was the beginning and end of his writing abilities but it would do. He added some vague designs of an engine around it. Doing these things on his own body was always messy work. Much easier to have proper tools and another body to work with. Nux' V8 was his best by far. Everyone envied his driver's chrome scars. He used to feed himself and Nux only on the payment he received from scarring up the others.

He was almost done, only deepening some lines here and there, when he got company.

“What are you _doing_?”

He looked up, saw Splendid and his gift around her neck. He was so stunned he completely forgot her question. She wore it. She didn't put it in her room or something. She wore it on her body, around her neck. He suddenly wished he made something shinier. Even so he couldn't tear his eyes away from her. He'd been afraid she'd never like him again, but this, this meant something, right? She allowed something he made to touch her. That was … good.

“Will you stop that?”

Slit flinched back as Splendid knelt down and tore the knife away. Her hands were warm around his and her face so close to the open patterns he felt her breath cooling the blood-wet skin. Then they were face to face, Splendid frowning at him, Slit frowning back out of pure habit. His eyes were still drawn to his gift hanging around her neck.

“You can't just …” Splendid paused and some of her exasperation melted into something else. “What did you do with that knife?”

Instead of answering verbally, Slit wiped away the blood and showed her the patterns he'd drawn.

“Looks shine.” he said, aware that he sounded like a pup who was being given a talking-to. Splendid did that, making him unsure of everything. 

“Like the necklace?” she asked and touched his gift for her. He shrugged and gave a tentative nod without facing her. He didn't look up when she gave a sigh and sunk down next to him, legs outstretched.

“What'd you come here for?” he asked before the thought slipped his mind. 

“Just wanted to make sure you were alright. As alright as you can be.” she said with a sidelong glance at his scars. He hummed in response and for a while that was the last they spoke.

It almost felt like being back in the canyon, sitting together, watching the stars. It was a halfmoon and the skies were full of sparks. They were bright as stars but flew across the dark sky for only a second or so before fizzling out. There were so many this night. Slit followed a few with his eyes, wondering what the people living up there worked on to cause so many sparks to fly. The Imperators said it was war boys in Valhalla working on their chrome cars. That was lies, or so the Wives said, but something big had to be build up there, Valhalla or no. He chanced a look at Splendid who seemed as enraptured with the sparks as he was. He wondered what Wives called them. If they had stories, too, like war boys had. He wondered if he'd understand them at all. Mostly when Splendid spoke it was as if she was speaking Buzzard. She made him feel insecure and like she saw through him without even trying and he didn't like feeling like that at all. Weak. A weak war boy was a dead war boy. But she'd never taken advantage of his weakness, never even mocked him. Feeling weak wasn't as scary when Splendid was there. She caught him staring and he turned away, clearing his throat to chase away the persistent lump. The companionable silence they shared was broken.

“I wanted to thank you.” Splendid said quietly, still looking at the sparks passing by up above. 

Slit tried to think of a thing he'd done right lately. Not much came to mind.

“Yeah?” he asked, managing only so to keep his voice steady. 

“Yeah. For keeping Cheedo safe. If it had been me to decide I'd never have let her go with you. She trusts you and you didn't betray that trust. You did well.”

Something like that from an Imperator would have been practically a standing invitation to Valhalla. Splendid wasn't an Imperator and the praise made him more giddy for her to have spoken it.

“Ya proud of me?” he asked, just a little bit cheeky. It earned him a dry chuckle.

“Yeah, idiot. I'm proud of you.”

 

Eventually Splendid went to sleep, leaving Slit to bask in the validation he'd been given. He didn't expect to see her again soon and was all the more surprised when she was there the next night, sharing with him some leftover fruit from dinner. They talked for a bit, she went to bed and came again the night after that. News of her nightly visits made the rounds quickly and Slit spent most of his mornings fending of curious war boys wanting to know how he managed to gain the approval of the Wife hardest to please. Especially since it was common knowledge that she hated him. But Slit, for once, didn't brag. He simply told the boys to fuck off and went to sleep knowing things were going well.

Of course, since life had a habit of making Slit as miserable as it could, that was when the dreams started again. He didn't have one for nearly 2500 days, the last time happening around the time he found Cheedo. He'd dreamed about the Immortan thanking him for his valuable find and touching him soft. He woke shivering and confused. Nux had covered him with his own body until the strain went away by itself and never spoke another word of it. This time he didn't dream about the Immortan. 

It was Splendid in his dream, and he sat in her lap, breathing heavily as she traced his scars with the tips of her fingers. She told him how proud she was of him and the warmth of her made him want to cry. All he wanted was to give in, but even in his dreams he knew he wasn't supposed to. He'd get punished. Worse, Splendid wouldn't want him to touch her back. She never would. But he didn't cry even when she continued her achingly gentle touches, even when he wanted to for a white-hot rod burning away his insides.

When he finally woke, panting and drenched in sweat, he found that his real body hadn't managed keeping the tears away and he rubbed at his face until the last trace of them went away. He sank back against the stone and stared up at the bunk above him until the day shift came down from the towers.

 

That night when Splendid came to visit he avoided her eyes and shuffled further away when she took her usual spot next to him.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He didn't believe it himself, but Splendid let him be. The silence between them was awkward, but Slit had worse. The thought of her finding out what he dreamed was definitely worse.

“Look, if it's something I did-”  
“Nothing you did.”

Splendid fell silent again, though not for long. 

“You're upset.”  
“No shit.”

He hadn't meant to say that. Now she'd never leave him alone. True enough she came closer again and this time, there was nothing but the corner of the watch tower to back into. And Slit hadn't sunken that low yet.

“Did someone hurt you?”

They didn't hurt him nearly enough. “No.”

“Did _you_ hurt someone?”

Almost, Slit thought. Dreaming about it was nearly as bad as doing it, wasn't it? But he said “No.” with the same tone of voice he used before and hoped Splendid wouldn't catch on. 

“You fucked something up?”

Yes. “No.”

“You're still sad about the war boy that died? Spotface?”  
A little. “No.”

Splendid huffed and looked around as if his distress was written on the walls. 

“Does it have something to do with me?”

Fuck. “No.”

His voice wavered the slightest bit and Splendid noticed.

“Are you lying to me right now?”  
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “N-no.”

“Slit …”  
“You're gonna shred me.”

And alright, he'd sunken that low. He retreated into the corner, grateful that at least she didn't follow.

Splendid said nothing more, but she also didn't leave. Simply knelt in front of him and took turns between looking at the sky and him. It was that that made Slit finally cave and say:  
“I dreamed someone was touching me soft.”

He couldn't stomach telling Splendid she'd been the one to do it. 

“Was it … bad soft touching?” she asked and at his confused frown (were there any other kinds?) she elaborated: “I mean, in that dream. Did that other person force the touching on you?”

If only. Slit heroically fighting off smegheads who wanted to do bad things to him would have been a good dream. He'd have told her that one without being asked. 

“I liked it. Only in the dream.” he added hastily. “Was a mediocre dream, I'd never touch soft.”

“We did, once.” she reminded him. He screwed his eyes shut at the memory. That had been different. They weren't home, the only other war boy around was Nux. It wasn't real. Him, touched by a Wife of the Immortan? It hadn't been real.

When he didn't speak, Splendid continued, voice soft and calming. His breathing evened out before he noticed it had become erratic.

“I'd never be angry at you for dreaming something like that. If you agree and the other person agrees too, touching each other can be something really nice. You thought I'd be angry because of what Joe did to us?” He nodded miserably. “That was different. He forced us. We said no, we cried and tried to fight him and he didn't care. _That's_ bad. He took something beautiful and turned it ugly.” Her hand was on his chin – when had she come this close? - nudging him gently to look up at her. He swallowed, eyes wide. “He's good at that.” She traced his scarred grin, careful not to disturb the open skin beneath the staples. 

“Is this okay?” she asked and he nodded again, voice lost somewhere between Splendid forgiving him for his horrible dream and acting it out. Her thumb brushed over his cheekbones. He didn't dare breathe. She cupped his face and the warmth of her palm seared his skin clean off, leaving him exposed and trembling under her. Somewhere far away the pain of the rod pulsed, reminding him that this was bad and forbidden and he shouldn't do it. Splendid was closer than the pain and for just a few more minutes it was enough. He closed his eyes again when she followed the line of his eyebrow and inhaled sharply when her lips brushed his forehead. He grasped the sleeve of her jacket, curled his fingers around the rough fabric. 

“Should I stop?” 

She probably should. His scars throbbed again. But he wanted her close more than he needed her away. He shook his head and when Splendid wouldn't resume her gentle touches he croaked, forcing his voice to work: “Please.” and touched his own face to make her understand. She did touch him again, her hand cradled the back of his head. He'd forgotten to shave that morning but she seemed to enjoy brushing over the stubble. In that moment nothing could hurt him as long as Splendid was there. And then her lips were on him again, soft and dry, on his forehead, on the tip of his nose and then on his lips. He pushed his own against her, realised they were sharing the same air, she was so close he'd be able to taste her. 

Splendid withdrew, smiling slightly. There was a little thought dancing around somewhere in Slit's brain that he must look like an utter fool, slumped against the wall, shaking, mouth half-open. 

“And that.” she whispered “Is called a kiss. People do it when they like each other a lot.”

The message took embarrassingly long to reach the small part of him that still did some thinking.

“You like me.” he breathed and that, somehow, was worth more than all the soft touches before.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in exchange for not updating so long this chapter is a bit longer. It's also going towards the end of this story. I have at least one deadline this month and November is going to be super stressful (Nanowrimo, Fallout 4 AND the glory and honour of dealing with german bureaucracy and ableism in the wonderful world of employment agencies) so I really want to get this finished before all that happens. So, what's going to follow is a shit-ton of fluff, a metric ton of smut, and approximately zero grams of plot.


	21. Together

“You're full of shit.”

“Your word burgers are full of shit.”

“You think you know better than the old world people?”

“They're gone, I'm still here. 's not hard to figure out who's winning.”

Angharad laughed and Slit grinned. The slightest validation made him light up. Angharad liked giving it to him for this reason only, to see a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on a pup but was still _Slit_ through and through.

“Alright, smart guy. What about those then? Old world people say it's someone who carries water.”

“Nah. That's a broken guitar.” Slit said full of conviction and connecting the stars with his finger. “There was a huge fucking battle up there in the sky. All the stars fighting, right? So on one side there's this guy, this really chrome guy who plays the guitar. Like our doof warrior only he walks around and hits people, too. And his side's losing, yeah, because they dont have those horse-things, and everyone's like, fuck, what are we gonna do? And this guy he loves playing music, he cant ever even stop it because he loves it so much, but he knows he's gotta do something, because all his friends are dying, right. And so he walks over to the boss of the other side, that's those stars over there of that dude with the long nose, and he just smacks his guitar right over his ugly face and snuffs him. And so they win right, because these guys they're fighting don't have a boss and they're pissing their pants because of that guy with his broken guitar. 's not much use anymore, though, so he just throws it aside and chases those bad guys out of his part of the sky. And his guitar's still where he left it, right there.”

As far as stellar hero-origin stories went, it wasn't so bad, Angharad supposed. Few stories survived the end of the world and those that did were generally about sex and seduction. Slit didn't think in those terms and instead added glorified violence where needed. Sometimes where not needed, as well. Creativity was a trait not generally nurtured among war boys and it gave him equal parts satisfaction and self-consciousness that he excelled at a skill few others had, but that even fewer found useful. He'd been the middle child of almost a thousand and occasionally still taken aback that Angharad knew his name at all. Much less willing to listen to his wild stories or wear the charms he made.

“What? No telling me I'm full of shit?” Slit drew her out of her thoughts equal parts demanding and unsure.

“You _are_ full of shit.” Angharad confirmed and squeezed his hand, noting he'd gotten better at returning such gestures instead of stilling as if his soul left his body. “I like that about you.”

When Slit grinned it always spread over half his face but this time it did metaphorically as well. He bumped their foreheads together, one of the few gentle gestures he was comfortable using. It was a war boy thing and it had surprised her just how intimate it was. She cupped the back of his head with her hand and after some hesitation he did the same to her, both holding steady eye contact to watch for the slightest hint of discomfort. Neither could hold this long, from being touched too much or not enough but the moments they could share they treasured.

“I wanna stay here.” Slit said, his warm breath ghosting over her lips.

“In the tower?”  
“At the Citadel.”

They parted and went back to sitting next to each other, eyes trained on the pitch black horizon.

“You didn't before?”

“Had to be here. But now I want to, too.” His explanation left things to be desired so he continued, wringing his hands. “'s like … when we got here first after the Immortan was dead and all. Everything was wrong. I wanted things back like they were. 's different now.” He stopped, straightened his back and didn't meet Angharad's eyes when he continued: “I think, maybe … maybe Immortan Joe wasn't always right. Maybe we're better off without him.”

Slit looked as if he expected to be hit by lightning. Angharad didn't feel much different. An admission like that from the same boy who once told her he'd be grateful if the Immortan raped him?

“You're right. We are.” she said at last, feeling this had to be rewarded. Slit didn't preen like a bird sandbathing like he usually did when he was right about something. But he relaxed a bit and leaned into Angharad's shoulder.

“Those stars over there look like a giant claw.” he said, pointing out what Angharad recognised as Orion.

“Yeah? What do you think it's doing there?”

 

 

The long hours between dusk and dawn slouching in the tower, watching nothing spread across a whole lot of nothingness used to be the longest in Slit's memories. Now he drew on the early evening, the moments when Splendid was with him up here, talking to him and listening to what he said. It was a unique experience, being taken seriously and spending the time by exchanging words. War boy life was either a flurry of activity or long periods of boredom. Talking about anything but war, Valhalla and cars was considered mediocre. Those few topics got old fast. With Splendid however he talked sometimes for hours, about useless things, like those stories she had him tell. He had no idea what she did with them but to have her look at him with that much interest he'd make up stories until he'd worn down his tongue. At this rate he became concerned about this being an actual possibility. He sought patterns in the stars, thinking up new stories to tell her tomorrow evening. Maybe sooner than that. Maybe he could get up earlier tomorrow and see her real quick before shift change. They wouldn't have much time but maybe he could ask her to touch soft again. His scars hurt less after every night and when they did he pushed the pain away, sometimes by replacing it by another, biting his tongue or digging into the fresh S-shaped cut.

He'd ask her, he resolved, for another kiss.

It had been a quiet night, like all nights had been so far, so when Slit came down to the bunks that morning the noise level hit him like a brick. War boys shouted and as Slit came closer to see what the commotion was all about, he noticed almost all of them carrying their shivs out in the open. He pushed some overly curious pups aside and found Plaga in the middle of the ruckus, snarling and lashing out randomly at the other boys.

“Hey! Keep it down, will ya? What's your problem?” he said, loud enough to be heard over the war boys. Plaga only spared him a sideways glance. He was much too busy defending himself against the dozen war boys trying to get to him. He was hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded. A smarter war boy would have tucked his tail between his legs and run off.

“That smeg wants to keep all of Spotface's stuff for himself.” One war boy claimed and got a multitude of others confirming it. Indeed Plaga defended not himself from the attacks but a bundle of tools and treasures.

“I won't let you take it away. It's his stuff. You have no right.”

Plaga let his concentration slip for a second, caught up in his irrational anger and didn't see the war boy coming at him from his side. Slit had no time to think. He stepped forward and kneed the boy in the stomach, and unsheathed his own knives, all significantly larger and sharper than any those boys had.

“Piss off.” he said without menace but firm enough to let the boys know he meant business. They could probably overpower him if they worked together, but nobody wanted to risk being on the business end of one of Slit's knives. Within seconds the place had cleared out, except for Plaga who clutched Spotface's belongings.

“You're not getting it either.” he said. There was nothing Slit needed or wanted and he felt way too tired to deal with this now. He just had to get involved, hadn't he.

“We're always splitting up the stuff from the dead boys.”

Plaga looked at his feet.

“I know.”

Slit urged him with an impatient wave to elaborate.

“'s all that's left of him, Slit. Can't let them steal it like buzzards. It's _his_.”

A hundred days before Slit would have laughed in that idiot war boys face. Now he saw the sorry assortment of collected items and realised Plaga was right. Spotface had been a schlanger eating son of a tailpipe but it felt wrong that everything he left behind should be a heap of trash to be divided among other war boys. They owned nothing of real worth. No one needed what was in that bundle Plaga carried, but they still fought over it. Most of them had probably already forgotten about Spotface. They didn't care that this was all the life of a war boy amounted to. When he died, they'd give away his stuff, too and everyone would forget about him. Even Nux and Splendid.

“We'll hide it.” Slit said, surprising himself with the idea. “Put it somewhere no one will find but we can go to if we need to remember.”

Plaga didn't even pretend to hide his tears. He choked out a muffled 'thanks' and followed Slit to look for a good hiding place.

The search took the better part of the morning. They disregarded the first half dozen spots they found on account of being too easy to stumble over. The next were too wet or too hot, too small or already occupied by other things. Eventually they found a nook in an unused hallway, hidden by twilight and some strategic rocks they placed around the bundle until the only way to notice something was hidden here was to know where to look.

“Thanks.” Plaga said again when they were finished.

“'s fine.” Slit said, longing for his bunk and finally some sleep. Plaga surprised him with his next question.

“Do you still wanna be a driver?”

“What?”

“I need one. A driver. If you want …”  
His own car just a nod of his head away. Everything he'd always wanted, riding out with a lancer on his perch, deciding where to go and what to do. Scouting for Furiosa far beyond the Immortan's influence.

Being gone from the Citadel for days at a time, where Splendid was.

“Ask Nux.” he said, hardly believing what he just did. “He, ah, needs a new lancer.”

 

 

Speaking of Nux had Slit realise that he hadn't seen his former driver for dozens of days. He was still alive, he'd made sure to keep his ears open for any news, but for a boy he'd almost lived on top of for most of his life, that was little to know. Resigning himself to a sleepless day he climbed up the stairs to the Wives rooms in which Nux spent his days until he got permission from Capable to work again. He wondered what he'd even say. They hadn't exactly been on good terms when they last spoke, which was a strange situation for war boys to be into. Disputes were taken care of quickly and with force. Leaving a potential enemy alone wasn't the way. However every war boy in the Citadel knew unkind things would happen to him if he lay so much as a finger on Nux. There was more to it than that, of course. They had been Driver and Lancer.

Nux sat curled up in a refurbished armchair on one of the balconies, the sun turning his unpainted skin pink. He appeared to be sleeping, chin sunken onto his chest, his breathing more even than Slit remembered it ever to be.

“Hey.” he said and kicked the chair, startling Nux out of his nap.

“Huh, wha- … Slit?”

“You still kicking?”

“Right now?”  
Slit rolled his eyes.

“Good enough for me. Don't snuff it, I've told someone you're his new driver.”  
He was already half inside the Citadel again, longing to flee the scorching heat, when Nux called him back.

“I'm _your_ driver.” he said but it came out as a question. Right. They never really stopped being Driver and Lancer. They just stopped driving and lancing together.

“Someone's gotta do guard duty.” he said with a shrug and unwilling to turn around and face Nux who, by the sounds of it, tried less than successful to scramble out of his chair. He didn't need to face him to know. His gangly limbs would get in the way, he'd get caught in the blanket and while trying to free himself pull it out from under himself causing him to fall and split a lip. The ensuing crash made Slit smile and turn around at last. Nux, rarely one to just roll over and submit to his fate, shot up like a spring. His lip was intact but he rubbed his left eyebrow.

“Could get your own car.” Nux said, drawing up the blanket around his shoulders again. How he didn't die with the heat Slit had no clue. He also didn't know how to answer that statement so he didn't say anything. Nux still understood.

“You wanna be with Angharad?”

Denying it would be disrespectful towards the woman he did indeed wanted to be with, but admitting it out loud to the boy who had the idea first was also not on the list of things he was capable of doing. He gave a helpless shrug in return. They didn't use to do this kind of thing before. They never talked, much less about their feelings. Come to think of it, Slit wasn't sure _what_ they did all day except for fighting for scraps of food or just fighting for the hell of it. Things changed now and Nux had always been more comfortable with the soft stuff. It figured he would drag Slit right into it by making him sit on the spare armchair and sinking back into his own.

“It's good with her?” he asked and that at last Slit could answer.

“'s chrome. Feels like world's not broken, y'know? Dunno how I'm worth her time, though.”  
Nux hummed in agreement. They both followed the line of the horizon, a stark blue on yellow line flimmering in the heat.

“Capable says …” Nux began and hesitated. Then, deciding he was allowed to share this piece of information he continued: “Capable says when I'm there 's like the Immortan was just a bad dream. Could be the same for Angharad.”

Slit thought about being able to make the sheer presence of Immortan Joe diffuse into a vague horror. Nux could, he didn't doubt that. He'd always been happy and eager to make people proud. Slit was just as eager, but less successful and _much_ less happy. He doubted he could make bad things go away, but something had to make him useful to Splendid. He did trust her judgment even if he didn't comprehend her reasons.

Nux swore up and down that Splendid saw something in him that was worth kissing. Slit liked to believe him and continued to squeeze him for every drop of information that might come useful in his endeavor to give back as much as she'd given him already. Through Nux detailed, if sometimes confusing report, Slit learned there was way more to touching soft than kisses and holding hands. As Nux helpfully illustrated some of the finer points with sweeping hand gestures, Slit wondered how that sickly kid with his breathing trouble managed to do half the activities he described and eventually determined that Nux made all of it up. There was no way straight up licking another person could be as pleasurable as he made it out to be, no matter where exactly you licked them.

 

“Licking people isn't fun. Right?” Slit asked later when he was with Splendid again. This time they'd cuddled up in her room, buried in some five or six blankets and propped against twice that amount of pillows. Sitting on this thing she called a mattress had been vaguely horrifying at first – it was like trying to sit on water - but turned to be rather pleasant. It was his night off, which had made him worry Splendid wasn't going to spend the evening with him if they couldn't be up the tower, but she'd shown up just after dinner and invited him to her rooms. The awed murmurs of the other war boys who listened in on the invitation chased away all nervousness about entering the Wives place.

“It can be. Nice, I mean.” Angharad said after some deliberation. Her breath brushed over the top of his head and he squirmed to find a more comfortable place to put it. Reversing their positions would make things easier on account of him being taller and having somewhat more space in his arms than she in hers. But that way, they found out after some time of experimentation, they could enjoy touching each other for longer. Slit fooled his anxieties by assuring himself he didn't technically _do_ anything and Splendid felt safer knowing she had control of the situation.

“Can I ask you something?” she said and Slit hummed his consent. The warmth made him drowsy but he wasn't inclined to do something about it. Splendid allowed him to fall asleep here.

“I … I know you were being punished for being gentle with each other. Some of the war boys in the infirmary speak about it sometimes. I was just curious what exactly … what they did to you. You don't have to answer if you don't like.”

But Slit only shook his head and pushed the blankets down a bit so she could see the scarred gashes in his stomach. Those were some of the few scars he wasn't proud of and usually he avoided talking about them, but with Splendid it was different. Everything was different with Splendid. He lay directly on her chest and could feel her holding her breath, her hand just hovering over his scars but not daring to touch. Slit took her hand in his and led her to the scars, allowing her to trace them. The touch was light enough to make him choke back giggles. She took his reaction as uncomfort and withdrew her hand, but held him closer to her chest.

“First time they caught me, was not so bad.” Slit said unprompted. “Been a boy for not ten days then, got caught crawling in with some older boys after a night terror. They thought I was still a pup, half-asleep like they were, and scratched me behind the ears a little so I'd shut up and go to sleep already. Imperator caught me, dragged me out, had me beaten and left me outside until the sun came up.” He scoffed. “Had worse. He was soft.”

The way Splendid held him now, one hand resting on his thigh, the other around his chest, her thumb stroking along his collarbone, he was oddly reminded of that very incident. Not the beating afterward, but the war boys who took care of him, not realising he was not a pup. Their touches had been more impatient, urging him to close his eyes and stop whining about monsters, but the warmth of another body, that was the same.

“But that's not where these scars come from.” Splendid said gently.

“No. Most war boys get it after one time, but not me. Always been an idiot.”  
“You're not an idiot.” she interrupted. “Wanting to be close to someone else is not stupid. That rule was, not you.”  
He didn't need to ask if she meant it. If Splendid said he wasn't stupid she believed it. Didn't make it true, but at least comforting.

“Imperators didn't think so. Got caught three times after the first. Other war boys wouldn't have gotten top-ups, would have died mediocre, but I'm a fucking shine lancer. 's why they just took the rod again. Would have been better if they just let me die.” he added, not really for Splendid to hear.

“Don't say that.” she said but he didn't listen.

“It hurts. The cut nobody gives a crap about. Did deeper stuff myself. But they saw me touching myself, stupid fucking coincidence. Shoulda been off duty but some other lancer got witnessed and they needed a replacement. Imperator found me with my pants down. So they get me down to the Organic and he makes the cut and heats up the iron. You been down to the cave there?”

Splendid nodded and remembered that pungent smell of burned flesh. She'd assumed it lingered from cauterising actual wounds, not administering punishment.

“'s dark and hot and they're talking the whole time. No more touching soft allowed and then it hurts. V8, it hurts so much.” He broke off, staring into the middle distance, absently lacing his fingers with Splendid's. His free hand touched the smallest gash.

“You're blind from the pain, but in your ears its like someone's screaming. Maybe I was. Dunno. Swore I'd never do it again.”

“But you did?”

“Yeah. Stupid cut didn't even close and they got me again. I told them I was sleeping, didn't know what I was doing. Didn't matter. Thought I was done for, said I'd do anything if they didn't take me off the top-ups. Mediocre thing to say. After that I never did it again. Was so scared they'd let me die mediocre. Even more scared they'd use the rod again.” Slit shuddered, the gashes throbbing like they hadn't all day. He couldn't continue. “Can we … can we sleep now?”

Splendid, V8 bless her, didn't pry, even though he hadn't said anything about the biggest scar. Couldn't, no matter how much he forced himself to speak up. They shuffled around until they lay comfortably, blankets drawn up over their shoulders, Splendid hugging him from behind. She kissed his neck and whispered good night. He said it back but didn't even try to fall asleep. Instead his eyes remained open and mapped the cracks in the wall. He should tell her. She hadn't even asked and didn't laugh at him for admitting the punishment hurt. But if he spoke about the smaller two rarely, the reason for the biggest one he'd never told anyone. It wouldn't be his ass on the line if he did.

Splendid's breath evened out, told Slit she'd fallen asleep. She was so calm when she slept. Breathed in deep, her chest rising and pressing against his back, then breathed out again with him subconsciously leaning back to keep the close proximity. Then that little pause between breaths that always, every single time, got him scared she wouldn't take another. But she did, every time. Splendid was full-life, she wouldn't stop breathing in her sleep. But the worry was still there. Slit listened to it for a while until he was sure she slept deep.

“It was Nux.” he said softly, so he wouldn't wake her. He'd started this stupid story and he needed to finish it. It was easier when no one was really listening. He talked to the crack in the wall that looked a little bit like two dogs. “He never got that we weren't supposed to touch soft anymore. Always tried to trick me into it or gave me stuff so I'd do it with him. Must have been a real shine treat when that Capable came. V8, he was mediocre. Been a war boy longer than me, you'd think he get it. But always wanted to touch soft and didn't care about punishment. He never got caught. I said yes one time. Only time I did it, lying on my back, Nux sitting on top of me and, and _doing_ things. Rubbing his junk against mine, touching himself soft the whole time. Told me to shut up but it felt weird, like really fucking weird. Two Imperators came down to the bunks, dunno what for. I saw them, Nux didn't, him wriggling around on me like he was. Did the first thing that came to mind, pushed him off, climbed on top of him. They were too close, the Imperators, we couldn't pretend nothing happened. Pinched his crotch to make him squeal and fight back a bit. Imperators thought I was making him touch me soft. Smeg. Tried to tell them I lied but I made him shut up real quick, just kicked him in the throat when they dragged me off.

Don't even know why I did it. They never caught Nux before, they would have just beaten him. But I figured, sometimes war boys die from the beatings, too weak to handle it. He's too good a driver to die from a mediocre beating. Should have let them beat him. Couldn't keep the secret anyway. They made the cut and I spilled everything. Told them it was Nux, that he got me to say yes. No one believed me. Just cut me open wider than before. Thought they'd never stop. Thought they'd gut me. And all the time they tell me to shut up, to stop whining and stop wasting water like that. Couldn't … couldn't stop. They drew it out so long. Had to make me _get it_ already.  
Still smell it sometimes, the burning flesh. Threw up, almost choked on it because they wouldn't let me turn around. Just kept burning and burning and it never stopped, they just kept doing it and I wished I was dead, I wished Nux was dead. I wished the Immortan never took me in. Sometimes I fainted but they always brought me back, felt like hours, felt like days and it burned, it hurt, it -”

He clenched his jaw, acutely felt Splendid too close, touching him soft. He scrambled away, looked for Imperators, stumbled out of the bed and further away even when he made sure they were alone. He stared into her open eyes, not really seeing her but the Organic, taking obscene pleasure in Slit's punishment. He vaguely thought that she looked too alert to have woken just now, that she must have heard at least part of what happened.

There was no way she didn't notice the tears but she didn't make a mention about the waste of water. Even if she did, he didn't think he could stop. His whole body shook and the gashes stung as if he was there again, the Organic scorching his insides, six war boys holding him down while he screamed for someone to have mercy. The smell made him dry-heave, swallow the bile that rose up. Splendid's voice was drowned out by some other noise and only after a while did he realise it was his own pathetic sobbing that did it. The room was cold and dark, no glowing coals to light and warm it. Slit tried to breathe but couldn't with that smell still in his nose and there was Splendid's voice still, this time clear enough to make out words.

“No one's gonna hurt you ever again.” she said from the bed. She didn't try to approach him for which he was grateful. He was poised to run and his muscles protested the strain, but she didn't give him any more reason to be afraid. “Shhh, it's over, they're long gone, no one's gonna hurt you. You're safe, Slit, you're safe now.” She repeated the same words over again, hushing him replacing the bad noises with good ones until he, weak-kneed and deeply exhausted sunk to the floor. The heat from the memories trickled away like the panic and left him shivering. He should apologise for waking Splendid up, should leave and sleep in his own bunk, but he could get neither his legs nor his voice to work. She still sat on the bed, a crease in her forehead marking her worry and he was slumped on the floor like an idiot, goosebumps spreading over his skin.

“Can I come closer?” she asked. Slit nodded weakly and breathed a sigh of relief when she brought a blanket with her and carefully draped it around his shoulders without touching him. Then she knelt next to him, half an arm's length away, another blanket wrapped around herself. She seemed content to spend the entire night sitting in the middle of her room like that but Slit wouldn't do that to her. He just needed a bit longer to pull himself together.

“It's alright being scared.” Splendid said to break the silence and keep him in the here and now. “No one expects you to shake it off just like that. Take your time and don't be ashamed. This won't be the last time this happens and that's okay. I'll be there for you every time.”

He prayed to V8 she was wrong and this was the last time he broke down like that. He was barely useful to Splendid as it was without robbing her of her sleep.

“Don't w- … don't wanna be deadweight.” he pushed out, throat tight. He swallowed, knowing that if Splendid wasn't there to talk him out of that memory he'd be trapped in it the entire night. If he never talked about it again, there wasn't any reason this had to happen again. Although he suspected that with them working out touching soft that hope was faint at best. The memories of his punishment were clearer these days than they had been in thousands of days.

“You're not deadweight. Slit, look at me.”

He followed her command hesitantly.

“This isn't about being useful or having skills. I like you the same way I like Cheedo and the Dag, Capable and Toast. Every single one of them went through what you are going through and I'd never leave them either. I'm not going to leave you for being hurt.”

Slit didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. But when she asked, he did allow Splendid to hug him. Her touch didn't panic him like he'd feared. He'd been afraid all those days of inching closer one by one, seconds of touch turning into minutes would be for nothing. But her arms around him were comforting and that made him get up and follow Splendid to bed again. They didn't sleep as close together as before but still touched, fingertip to fingertip. Enough to know the other was there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go and then this story's finished. At least I hope so. I didn't actually plan on doing another chapter this long, but the plot should be all cleared up for the smut now. The angsty, H/C filled smut, but still. Smut.


	22. Splendid

“You sure about this?”

“Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be? I'm fine.”

Slit raised his eyebrows and offered her a tentative smile.

“We don't have to, y'know?”  
Angharad's shoulders slumped, but she smiled back at Slit through the strands of her hair falling into her face. One of them he took between his fingers and pushed it behind her ear, appearing completely undisturbed by the fact that she was sitting on him. But then, communication between them was a learning process.

“Are you telling me that because you want to know if I want to or because you don't want to anymore and you hope I say I don't want to so you don't have to say you don't want to?”

His eyes unfocused as he deconstructed her question.

“I … want to?” He ventured at last. “Do you want to?”

“I do.”  
Slit nodded but made no move to touch her again and neither did Angharad. He looked up at her with that look of permanent but vague adoration and she met his gaze halfway with one just as devoted. Dozens of days passed since Joe died and she still occasionally dreamed about him. Slit did, too, but didn't seem to dwell on it much. More often than not the Joe in her dreams spoke with Slit's voice or wore his face and that should probably tell her something about being ready to become intimate with him. But then she'd wake and find Slit sitting in a corner of her room, working off his anxieties by making one of his charms and he couldn't be further from Joe, even with the paint and the lumps. Her subconsciousness might not understand he was not her rapist but the part of her that was in charge trusted him implicitly.

Neither of them had done anything as of yet, however. Angharad chuckled and Slit mirrored her, looking to her to explain her amusment.

“We're really bad at this, aren't we?” she said.

“'s not so bad.” Slit objected, grinning. “You're sitting on me. 's a start, right?”

“Yeah.” Today though she wanted more than a start. And while Slit did his best to lie still, he practically vibrated with excitement. They both wanted this, so instead of musing further over her past, Angharad leaned forward and brushed Slit's lips with her own. He exhaled audibly, eyes wide but then closing in bliss when she met his tentative attempts at deepening the kiss. Using tongue was out of the question, the act reminding her too much of Joe shoving his down her throat, that moist lump of flesh suffocating her. They kissed dry, massaging each others lips, leaving both the option to draw back and breathe. Usually she kept her eyes open, just to see the expression on Slit's face whenever she kissed him but this time she closed them. They were almost flush against each other, and she felt every hard line where Joe had only fat. If it came to it Slit could overpower her without even breaking a sweat, but his needy gasps reassured her that violence was the last thing on his mind.

“Please …?” he said when they broke apart and tilted his head to the side, baring his neck to her. He shivered when she indulged him and peppered little kisses along the vein and whined when she licked her way down again.

“Feels nice?” she asked and laughed when he only managed a weak nod and urged her to continue. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hands twitching to return the favour but steadily coming back to his sides, gripping the sheets instead of her hips.

“You're doing so well.” she said and added, in a spur of the moment: “Good boy.”

His lips bucked so hard he almost threw her off. Making a noise of displeasure at the loss of contact het sat up along with Angharad, begging for another kiss.

_Somebody's got a thing for praise_ . Angharad thought, filing that conclusion away for later. She pushed him backward until he could lean against the wall, flushed cheeks pressed against the cool stone while Angharad placed a kiss on his collarbone and worried the skin carefully between her teeth. It was unexpectedly arousing to touch Slit like this and watch his reactions. She wondered if he felt the same way about touching her. 

“If you want, you can touch me.” she said and yelped when he immediately engulfed her in a crushing hug, excitement and eagerness breaking his restraint like a dam. He let go in an instant and searched her face for any signs of distress. His mouth was already on autopilot.

“Sorry, sorry. Was too fast, shouldn't have done that, should have asked what kind of touch. I messed up, I-” He shut up, squinting at the finger she placed on his lips. They were warm and slightly swollen from kissing. And they trembled.

“It's okay. You just startled me, that's all. Try again?”

It took some time for him to work up the nerve to touch her again, this time more carefully. He placed his hand on her lower back and gently followed the curve of her spine, the touch light and warm. The entire time they held eye contact, testing the waters with every new touch. So far Angharad felt fine, great even, and saw a similar sentiment in his eyes. She resumed her exploration of Slit's body after she made sure he was still fine, each kiss she placed on his body calming her down from the little scare. It might have something to do with him stroking her back, giving her goosebumps she never wanted to go away. She kissed his throat, felt him swallow. Her hands cupped his shoulders and stroked down his arms, past the scars, some beautifully rendered, some accidental marks of a war boy's life. Each and every scar could have been a death sentence. Something as small as a cut on the arm could have become infested, could have lost him blood he desperately needed due to the anemia most war boys suffered from. The thought made her uneasy. To think Joe would have sacrificed Slit without a second thought, without ever even knowing this wonderful, deeply insecure and creative boy made her wish she had venom left to hate him with.

“What's wrong?” Slit asked, frowning and tilting his head to get a look at Angharad. Only now did she notice she stopped kissing him.

“It's nothing.” she said and then thought better. How was she supposed to teach him to open up, if she waved her own concerns away. “I was thinking about what Joe did to you. How he could have killed you and wouldn't have cared.”

It spoke for Slit that he didn't refute her statement. But it was also sad in a way, to see the war boy seeing his religion, his entire purpose of being, slandered and letting it happen. He drew sweeping patterns on her back with the tips of his fingers, lost in thoughts. It always came back to Joe, everything horrible happened because of him and hundreds or even thousands like Slit had died believing him to be God. A god wouldn't let its subjects suffer, Angharad thought as she brushed her thumb over the scar on his left cheek.

“You'd care.” Slit said and it took her a while to connect his statement with hers. And just like that she felt like smiling again.

“Yes. I would.” she said and kissed him again, kissed him with more fervour than before to drive home the point that she wouldn't only care, she'd be heartbroken. There were things she couldn't wrap in words but Slit seemed to pick up on at least some of them, because he hooked his arms under hers, hands on her shoulderblades, and drew her forward with ease. He angled his knees to allow her to sit comfortably leaned against his legs, working on getting closer and closer to each other. Her throat tightened against the sudden feeling of being trapped. He was all around her and Angharad forced herself to look at him, reminding herself that this was _Slit_ , not Joe. She could do this. She leaned forward to brush her lips against his temple. _Pretend you like it so he won't take one of your Sisters._

She couldn't do this. She struggled against his arms, fell when he released her without a fight and scrambled to the other end of the bed.

“Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.” She rocked to and fro, cursing under her breath at everything and everyone. It was like being on the war rig again, heart pounding in her throat as she heard the war boys chant, heard Joe give his speech of the addictive water, while they waited for Furiosa to take them away and hope she didn't betray them after all. The room was too small, the door locked for Slit's benefit to reduce his fear of being caught. That was no way out but there was the balcony and fresh air sounded like a blessing right about now. Angharad got off the bed, leaving Slit where she left him, wide-eyed and worried.

The cool evening breeze did wonders for her anxiety. They used to have fresh air in the vault, but Joe made sure there was nothing for them to jump from. This balcony had a balustrade made from car bumpers and it would be the easiest thing in the world to jump. She had no desire to kill herself but to have the option relieved her of feeling like being in a prison. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed some warmth into them, wondering how on earth they'd make this work. Toast had suggested leaving out the sex completely. And while that sounded wonderfully simple, Angharad _wanted_ Slit. The days since their reunion had her anticipating every intimacy, had her feel warm in a way she never had about Joe. The way he walked and moved his hips like he was made of water drove her crazy. As if he knew she thought about him, Slit came out on the balcony, trying to put his usual, sinuous gait on and failing. For the most part. He still looked utterly delectable and Angharad knew that if he didn't break this whole thing off, she _would_ have him or go insane.

“You're gorgeous.” she said and smiled at the blush he tried to detract from with a scowl.

“You're always saying that.” he said, actually pouting.

“Because it's true.”

This time he smiled and came up by her side, leaning against the balustrade. Angharad followed the line of his back from the curve of his shoulderblades down to the dip in his lower back and resting on his firm ass. She might have been imagining it but she got the impression that Slit, upon seeing her stare, arched his back the tiniest bit more. He definitely did pull his shoulders back to give her a better view of his strong arms.

“You okay?”

Angharad shrugged.

“I feel stupid.”, she said. “It shouldn't be a big deal. I trust you, I shouldn't be acting like this.”

“And I shouldn't have t' lock the door just for kissing ya. Shouldn't get scare-attacks for something that feels nice.”

“That's not true!” Angharad said. “None of that is your fault and you've gotten so much better and there is no reason for you … to be … ashamed of yourself …”

Slit's grin spread over his entire face.

“'s right. You're telling me this stuff but you don't think it's true for yourself?”

“No … it's true for everyone.” Angharad conceded, feeling a bit silly but mostly comforted. “You're right. Thank you.”

They leaned into each other, foreheads touching.

“You still wanna do this?”

“I do, I just … I want to stop being scared.”

Slit hummed in agreement.

“Me touching you, that scares you.” Angharad made to protest but Slit talked over her. “If I lie down arse up it should be better, right?”

His bluntness made her laugh and consider the suggestion. He wouldn't be able to touch her and wasn't part of sex doing it together, instead of one inflicting it on the other? She shared this concern with Slit.

“First time's always hardest.” he said. “'s the same with Lancing. You don't put a pup on the perch and tell 'im to throw a thunderstick through someone's head. First comes target practice, then you teach 'em not to fall off. 's not smart wanting to do everything at once. Next time, if you want, I'll try touching you again. Sound fair?”

It did. They returned to her room and Slit true to his word lay down on his stomach, waiting patiently for Angharad to join him. It was such a vulnerable position, he wasn't even able to watch her come closer. When she did and placed one hand between his shoulderblades, fingertips catching on the scars leading down his spine, he didn't flinch, didn't even blink at the sudden contact.  
“Aren't you scared?” she wondered, more to herself as she settled on top of him once again, Slit trusting and pliant under her.

“Not of you. You won't hurt me.” he said with conviction she hoped would come half as easy to her one day. When she began kissing him again, from the back of his neck down his spine, he made little sounds of pleasure with each one and went completely boneless when she begun kneading the tension out of his muscles.

“V8 …” he murmured, blissfully moving against her, the rough fabric of his trousers rubbing against Angharad's inner thighs. In a pique of friskiness Angharad slipped her hand under his waistband, and felt her own arousal at hearing his sharp intake of breath. The angle was awkward and so she made him lift his hips a little and reached for the button of his trousers. Her efforts to undo the button and subsequent unintentional tickling were met with muffled laughter until he lent a hand and snapped the button open. Dragging his trousers down over his ass and down his legs, she made sure to give each new inch revealed to her attention. It didn't surprise her much to see the paint reach barely to his hips and faded into his natural skin tone further down. It was practical sun-screen as much as sign of worship and there was little reason to cover up parts of the body that would be protected from the sun anyway. It made for an interesting contrast, although even without the paint he was pale.

“Everything good?” she asked and grazed the back of his knee with the tips of her fingers.

“Yeah. Yeah. Everything's good. Do that again.” Slit gasped and clenched his hands to the sheets when she did, barely touching the sensitive skin there. She lowered her head and closed her lips over that spot, holding Slit's leg down gently to keep him from jerking away and accidentally kicking her. Her precaution proved to be a wise one as Slit positively sobbed when she used her teeth until the back of his knee was red and spit-slick.

“Never felt like that when I did it.” he breathed, swallowing his moans as she did the same on his other leg, while carefully placing a hand on his hip.

“You did this before?”

“Yeah, when I-” Slit's mouth snapped shut, his head whipped around toward the door. “What was that?”

“What? I didn't hear anything.” Angharad said but made way for Slit to get up, shoulders hunched, bare feet hitting the ground soundlessly.

“I heard someone.”

“It was probably just Toast. She'll be back from scouting. It's okay, Slit.”

But she could see that it wasn't. Just a moment ago he'd been relaxed and smiling, putty in her hands. Now he all but snarled at her, fear making him angry. She got up and approached him slowly. “It's alright. The door's locked, you did it yourself. No one can barge in on us.”

He backed away and Angharad didn't pursue.

“Could have heard us.”

“We were quiet.”

“Maybe they know and were listening.”

“They still wouldn't have heard. The door is solid, the walls are half a metre of stone.”

Angharad didn't bother telling him that no one would care even if they did hear. He wouldn't believe her right now. But he did put some stock in her assurances that they wouldn't be found out. He calmed gradually, coming back to her with every second that had no Imperator's storming in. His neck where she'd kissed and licked the paint away, was pink with embarrassment.

“Sorry.” he said but she would have none of it. She strode toward him, watching closely for signs of distress and, upon finding none, pushed him against the wall, pinning his hands over his head and kissing him deep. He moaned against her lips and pushed his hips into hers, not even trying to get out of her grip.

“Don't be.” she gasped, pushing against him, feeling his hard cock against her belly. “You stalking around my room naked like that is doing things to me.”

Slit laughed, muffled still by her lips. They parted, breathing heavily against each other. She had to stand on her tip-toes to keep his hands against the wall but it offered the benefit of being able to look him directly in the eyes without having to crane her neck.

“Yeah? What things?” he asked, once again his cocky self.

“Makes me want to fuck you. Makes me want to ride your face, make you suck me off.”

“Then what are ya waiting for?” he asked, voice just that much shakier than before. Angharad smiled wide and kissed him again, grasping his cock with her free hand. This had gone on long enough, she figured and didn't tease or draw it out. She stroked him hard and fast, watched enraptured as his eyelids dropped close, his chest rising and falling with every helpless moan and needy gasp. He writhed under her hold but even as she let go of his hands he kept them over his head. He wouldn't touch her unless she specifically asked and in this, at least, Slit was right. There was no need for them to do everything at once. She pushed her hand in her own pants, felt herself slick and throbbing with arousal. The first touch took the edge off. Slit's eyes shot down between them, widening as he saw what she did.

“ _V8_ …” he breathed and groaned when she stroked him faster. She rubbed her clit in the same rhythm, pressed herself up against his body, had to put all her concentration into not losing rhythm. She'd been close pretty much since Slit walked in today, full of anticipation of finally seeing and touching all of him.   
“V8, have mercy … please …”

That last please didn't sound like the good kind. She looked up, found his eyes screwed shut, and his lips bitten bloody.

“Slit?” she asked and slowed down.   
“Keep going.” he begged but something clearly wasn't right.

“Slit, what's wrong?” She made to take her hand away, desperately close to her own orgasm but awash with worry. He lowered his arms and cupped her hand with his, making it stay on his cock.

“Please. Splendid, don't stop.”

She was torn. He was going through something, wasn't completely there. Should she stop, knowing something was wrong, or should she respect his wishes and trust that he'd know how much he could deal with? Trust won over caution and she kissed him again, licking the blood from his lips, and went back to the rapid pace she'd set before.

“Shhh, that's it. Listen to my voice. You're doing so well, look at yourself. So good for me.”

The praise did wonders to keep Slit aware of his surroundings. He pumped his hips, desperately close. He started chanting her name, whispers of reverence and pure bliss.

“You're gorgeous, so beautiful like that. Wanna come, yeah? Go on, come for me.”

His cock pulsed in her hand as he came, shooting his load all over her hand and stomach, twitching and crying out. The sight was enough to send her over the edge as well, made her crashland on the other side, orgasm rippling through her body and cutting all connection between her brain and body. She would have fallen if it hadn't been for Slit who had the presence to guide them more or less gracefully to the ground.

They sat in each other's arms, faces incredulous and a little intimdated.  
“Well … that was new.” Angharad said, blinking against the pleasant buzz of exhaustion. Slit could only make a vague noise in agreement. Cheedo used to tell her that not only men had orgasms but she'd never believed it would be quite this … earthshattering. It reminded her, oddly enough, of the time they fled Gas Town, Slit at her back, the two of them throwing thundersticks. It was exhilarating and wild. Nothing could have prepared her for this.

“Is it always like this?” Slit asked after a while of staring into nothing. Angharad shrugged, then smiled.

“We could find out.”

“What, right now?” he said with only a hint of panic in his voice. Considering how spent she felt she could feel with him not wanting to go another round just now.

She laughed and petted his head.

“No, no. Later. When we've had some rest.”

 

They did, later, find out that at least between the two of them it was always like this. And while Splendid and Slit enjoyed each other's company, mended with gentle touches and kind words what had been broken by callous men, the world kept turning. High up in the gardens plants bore their first fruit and even the water lost it's poisonous touch. Scars faded into nothing, dreams turned pleasant again. Children were born who had only ever seen the Many Mothers working their patient magic in the Citadel and the old people died peacefully, knowing the bad memories they took with them to their graves were all that was left of the men that once killed the world.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been so much fun, and all of it thanks to you guys. Without your support this story wouldn't be half as long and about a tenth as good, so thank you.  
> The next few months will be stressful (as fuck), but keep an eye out for sequels early next year.  
> I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it.


End file.
